


Blackbird Fly

by artsyUnderstudy



Series: Blackbird [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addict Sam, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Dean, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Dissociation, Drama, Drama & Romance, Drug Addiction, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Functional Alcoholism, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Insomnia, M/M, Melodrama, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Organized Crime, Panic Attacks, Past Drug Use, Physical Abuse, References to Healthy BDSM, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 163,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artsyUnderstudy/pseuds/artsyUnderstudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearly a year after starting the fire that claimed the lives of Ruby Darvelle and Anna Novak, fifteen year old Sam Winchester returns home from his stint in court ordered rehab.  Sam and his older brother, Dean, struggle to remake their own complicated relationship and the home they’ve lost in the wake of this tragedy, while a chance meeting brings Anna’s brother, the troubled and secretive Castiel, into their lives.  Fighting with his recovery, Sam finds himself drawn to the strong and lively Jess, while Castiel and Dean find comfort in one another.  As consequences of their past emerge and threaten to tear apart what they’ve carefully rebuilt, they are all forced to reevaluate who their family really is, and to what lengths they’re willing to go to keep it safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for drinking as a coping mechanism, and referenced drug abuse and withdrawal (common throughout the story)

“ _In the shuffling madness,_ _of the locomotive breath, runs the all-time loser, headlong to his death…_ ”

Dean touched the neck of the bottle, dragged his fingers up and down the damp glass. The music was loud in the tight space of the bar, voices of muttered patrons leaking in between lulls, and Dean tried to lose himself in it. The noise, the churning, bluesy rhythm. He felt the lip of his beer bottle knock against his teeth, the booze biting warmth against his tongue. Couldn't even taste it anymore,really, but it'd been cheap and bitter, and he didn't exactly miss it.

This wasn't about taste, anyway. Hadn't been for a long time. 

A hand tightened against his shoulder, and he swallowed.

“ _He hears the silence howling --_ _catches angels as they fall..._ ”

“I think you’ve had enough,” said a familiar voice.  Dean dropped his hand to the table a little forcefully and shook his head, a lame attempt to clear the fog that had settled there.  The sudden movement only made his vision swim and he shut his eyes tight against it, cursing under his breath.

“S’ non’a yer business,” Dean slurred out quietly in response.  “Le’ me be, Ellen.”

“Like hell it isn't. What would your daddy say, seein’ you like this?” she continued, unfazed.

“Fuck him,” Dean spat back.

“Fine.  Sam, then,” she offered with a sigh, moving to lean over the bar in an attempt to get Dean to look at her.  Dean lifted his head, eyes tired and unfocused, Sam's name sending dread to settle in his gut.  Worry flashed in Ellen's eyes, but she held firm as Dean turned his expression stony and creased his eyebrows together. He dragged his thumbnail across the damp paper label barely clinging to the beer bottle between his palms.

“Ellen, _please_.” Dean pleaded soberly, unable to maintain eye contact.  

Ellen sighed and took the small collection of empty beer bottles from in front of Dean, walking around behind the bar and tossing them in the trash.  She grabbed a damp towel from beside the sink.  “He’s comin’ home tomorrow,” Dean offered, tone pinched and hands fidgeting now that the bottle he’d been picking at was gone.

“All the more reason you shouldn’t be here.  Devil take me for lettin’ you get this bad, you’re not even legal to drink yet,” Ellen reprimanded herself, frowning as she moved to wipe down the counters.  She eyed another regular who had raised his mug for a refill.

“Bett’r here then on m’ own,” Dean countered, his grin never reaching his eyes.

“Yeah, well, that’s what I tell myself so I can sleep at night,” Ellen sighed as she grabbed the empty mug and held it under the tap, pulling the lever with a little more force than necessary.  Dean watched absently as the dark beer filled the glass to the brim.  “I’ll wake Jo up and get her to take you home, no way I’m lettin’ you drive yourself,” she continued, setting the drink in front of her patron and walking back toward him.  Dean shook his head and dropped his feet to the floor, heavy boots thudding loud against the wood.  His movements were overly cautious, hardly swaying as he pushed himself into a standing position and leaned casually against the bar to look at Ellen. 

“M’ gunna walk,” he paused to breathe, needing to sound significantly less drunk to convince Ellen to let him leave.  “It’s only a mile out and I need some air.”

Ellen eyed him suspiciously and leaned forward, took Dean’s face between her hands, and pressed her thumbs just under his eyebrows.  Dean felt himself flinching involuntarily as she forced his eyes open wide.  

Dean met her gaze, and Ellen let out a huff of resignation.

 “I shouldn’t let you, but you’re eighteen now and I can’t exactly stop you,” she murmered, pushing him away.  Dean grinned and leaned back as Ellen crossed her arms over her chest and let out a humorless laugh.  “Straight home, and you call me when you get there,” she said, a little louder as he widened the gap between them.

“Yes ma’am” Dean said, turning on his heel toward the door. 

Dean made it all the way out of The Roadhouse without so much as swaying, but his easy grin fell as he stumbled lamely on the uneven concrete.  The anxiety ate away at him, a pressure on his chest he couldn't quite drink away.  He slurred curses as he raked his hand through his hair, other arm reaching out to the brick wall beside him to steady his stride.  The alcohol burned hot in his veins as he stumbled forward, unable to keep his mind or his feet from veering off course as he made his way home. 

He should have stopped before the last beer. Hindsight.

Dean was so focused on the monumental task of putting one foot in front of the other that he hadn't noticed anyone’s tired eyes gauging him from across the street, lingering too long on his missteps.  Instead he turned into a dark alley, his fingers dragging against the cold brick. 

This was more or less a safe part of town, and even fucked out of his mind he could posture better than most.  Worst case, he never left home at night without his father’s pistol tucked in the back of his jeans, and he could shoot the buttons off a jacket at hundred meters.  He was John Winchester’s son, it never occurred to him to be worried.  Not about his _own_ safety. 

Especially now when the only coherent thoughts he had were of getting home and the dread he felt at what would find him there in the morning.

It was too much, and it was swallowing him up.

It had been a month since he had seen his little brother, a month since the last time he had the courage to go visit.  It had all been mumbled excuses over short phone calls, but Dean was certain him being there did more harm than good.  Every time he saw Sam, scrawny and shaking and so guilty, it _tore_ at him, and every time he left it got worse. 

Dean wanted to be there with him, wanted to stay at a cheap motel nearby so that he could watch over his little brother, but Sam insisted he not give up on school.  Without his job at the auto shop he could hardly afford a motel anyway.  Even one the surliest of drifters would think twice about. Instead he stayed, and he went to class more than half the time, utilizing his father’s bank card only to stock his fridge with microwave meals and beer. 

God, _beer_. 

Dean doubled over and tried to grip the rough brick, keep himself upright, but his vision kinked as the last drink hit him like a freight train.

"Fuck," he spat.  None of this shit would have happened if it weren’t for him.  He should have known.  He should have done something.  He was supposed to protect Sammy but he fucked that up just about as bad as it was possible to fuck up, and now… _and now..._

Dean’s foot caught in the grating of a drain and he stumbled toward the wall, feeling the skin on his knuckles tear as he threw a clenched fist out to brace himself.  

" _Fuck_."  

Dean sucked in a breath as his knees buckled beneath him, the scene around him reeling.  The only sound the scratch of his old leather jacket against brick as he slid to the ground, knees clanging painfully against the metal grating.  There was a sudden patter of footsteps behind him.  Dean moved his arm to reach clumsily for the weapon at his back, fingers barely grazing the cold metal before everything went dark.

\--

The steady thrum of an old beat leaked out through the cracks in the building.  It was nothing like the new club they had down a few blocks, winged on either side by a hookah bar and a “vintage” book store that sold copies of _New Moon_ in artfully decorated display windows.  Nothing like the cold, monotonous drone of dance music, the kind his classmates preferred to surround and lose themselves in.  Instead it was a bluesy beat that settled nicely in the bones, the kind of music that felt it had a beating heart. 

The Roadhouse always played good music, the kind Castiel didn’t mind half listening to as he walked slowly along mostly empty sidewalks, hands deep in the pockets of his old tan coat.

A breeze brought the smell of tobacco with it, and Castiel frowned and turned toward it, three men in their mid-twenties lighting up in a circle beneath the warm yellow streetlight.  Castiel met the eyes of the most immoderately dressed of the three, glaring coldly as the man looked him up and down and, winking seductively, moved to take another drag. 

The music coming from the old bar poured into the street with a new intensity, the broad-shouldered silhouette of a man drenching the pavement before the open door.  Castiel moved his eyes toward the figure, stumbling as soon as his boots hit the pavement, grasping at the wall beside him for support.  The man stopped for a moment, running a hand through short brown hair before shoving it back is his pocket, and Castiel’s heart clenched when he caught a look of helplessness ghost across his face.  Then it turned back to unfocused frustration. 

Castiel looked warily back at the trio who were trailing the newcomer with interested glances.

He touched the handle of the blade in his pocket as he looked back to the drunken man making his way slowly into a narrow alley, and it occurred to him that he felt... protective. 

The group spoke between themselves in hushed voices, eyes still darting back and forth between one another and the alley, and Castiel didn't have to be a genius to figure out that it was not a good sign.  He walked purposefully up to them, hand gripping the hilt of his knife in his pocket, and stared them down. 

“Don't touch him, or I’ll make sure you regret it.” He growled, voice low and hard in his throat.

The man he had engaged earlier walked up to him, cocky as he pleased despite being an entire head shorter.  Castiel frowned as the other man smirked up at him, wetting his thin, pink lips before he spoke. 

“Is that so, sweetheart?” He spoke with a thick, gritty Scottish accent, the smell of scotch and smoke on his breath.  “And how, I wonder, will you manage that?” He gestured easily to the men at his sides.  Castiel’s immediate response was to smirk, thumb tracing the blade’s handle out of sight.

“I’m not afraid of your dogs, and I’m certainly not afraid of you,” Castiel spoke intensely, voice barely above a whisper.  The other man barked a laugh and took a step forward, eyes glancing at the pocket of Castiel’s coat that hid the knife.

“Oh, I think –“

“Crowley wait,” one of the other men interrupted, voice a little frantic, “That’s… I think that’s Raph Novak’s brother.” The man called Crowley paled at that, and for the first time really looked at Castiel’s face, all hard angles and shadows under the streetlight.  He never let the smirk slink off his lips, but Castiel knew without a doubt his fight was won, albeit not the way he had planned.  It took Crowley a beat to find his voice again.

“Seems there’s been a mistake, love.  I’ve got no interest in your boy there.  No need to get... touchy,” he appeased, backing away with his hands elevated in a small surrender.  Castiel frowned at Crowley as he loosened his grip on the knife.  “Seamus Crowley, by the way.”  He smiled around the cigarette between his lips, all charm and confidence.

“I don’t care,” Castiel responded coldly, stepping off the curb and heading toward the alley.

“So sexy when you’re angry!” Crowley shouted after him, but Castiel ignored it and walked faster, leaving the muffled noise of the bar and Crowley’s throaty laugh behind him.

As Castiel walked forward, a loud thud bounced off the narrow walls of the alley, muttered curses as a shadowed figure hit the ground knees first against a metal grate.  The sound sent a dull ache of concern through Castiel, and he broke out into a sprint toward him.  As he neared he registered the flash of metal, and stopped abruptly,

“ _Wait_ , I won’t hurt you.  Don’t…” Castiel gasped out, but he didn’t need to continue because the hand that had reached for the pistol fell slack; the body slumped against the wall.  He stepped forward cautiously, hands out where the other man could see them.

He was so young, soft crescent-shaped lines under his heavy lidded eyes.

Kneeling down, Castiel moved slowly to tip back the stranger’s head, one hand supporting his neck and the other hovering above his mouth and nose.  His breathing was normal.  Castiel let out a pinched sigh.  He fought the urge to linger there, slightly enraptured by the light dusting of freckles across his cheekbones and the worried lines at the edges of his mouth.

The man’s eyes twitched beneath dark, heavy lids, and Castiel moved his hands to his shoulders, propping him up so his own face wasn’t inches away.  The man in his arms shuddered, his hazy green bloodshot eyes opening up to meet his own. 

 

\--

The first thing Dean felt when he woke were hands planted firmly on his shoulders. 

He hadn’t blacked out long; just long enough to disorient him.  He attempted to raise his head, which was lolling about on his shoulders like a novelty dashboard bobble-head, and was met with probably the strangest looking guy he'd ever seen.  No, not strange.  Different.  _Pretty._   Younger than he was, probably. Slender. Strong jaw and soft lips.  The stranger cocked his head to the side, eyebrows knitted together and squinting as if he were trying to figure Dean out like a particularly beautiful crossword. 

It made him supremely uncomfortable.

“Tha’ hell’r you?” Dean slurred, wanting to move but unable to do more than stare at the stranger. “I got- gotta get home,” Dean said, more frantically, pushing lamely back against his grip.  The man just stared at him, holding him in place with little effort.

“My name is Castiel.  Let me help you,” he finally replied.  His voice was like sandpaper, rough, and worn, and sending heat straight to his gut.

“Why?” Dean spat, letting his fingers drag along the concrete below him.  “Don’t need help, m’fine.”  He tried to push himself up again, and this time Castiel let him go, hands still hovering warily just above his shoulders.  Dean backed up against the wall, sliding himself up the rough surface, hands splayed against the brick to steady himself.  Castiel followed his movements, standing eye level with Dean once they were both upright.

“I’m not sure what your definition of 'fine' is but _mine_ seems to differ quite a bit.  Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Castiel asked a little harshly. He didn’t move to touch Dean again.

“That a _threat_?” Dean growled, trembling fingers inching slightly toward the pistol now shielded by his too large leather jacket.  Castiel sucked in a breath and took a step back, and Dean looked up at him curiously, swaying a bit as he leaned forward from the wall.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Castiel said, raising his two empty hands in the air.

Dean had to seriously concentrate to make eye contact with Castiel because everything around him spun like he was strapped to a centrifuge. 

“I swear,” Castiel added, as if it made a difference. 

Despite his better judgment Dean believed him.  That didn’t mean he wanted his help.  He huffed out a laugh and waved exaggeratedly at Castiel before he turned, bracing himself against the wall.  With concentrated effort he began to stumble in the direction of his house. 

Castiel muttered something angrily under his breath that sounded a lot like _stubborn asshole_ , and Dean couldn’t help but smirk. 

The smirk faded when a wave of nausea hit him, and he fell against the wall, shaking legs barely keeping him vertical.  He heard Castiel run up behind him and felt him grab his shoulders, preventing him from sliding back onto the concrete.  He huffed, frustrated as hell, and buried his face in one hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose and taking long, steadying breaths.  Castiel just held him as steady as he could manage. 

Once Dean’s breathing slowed to normal, Castiel braced himself under Dean's arm, his own sliding around Dean’s waist, taking on a good portion of his weight.  Dean grimaced, but didn’t fight him.  Putting as little strain on Castiel as he could manage, Dean began to walk forward silently, head bowed and eyes fixed on the ground.

They were both quiet for a few minutes, only the beat of their feet and the distant sounds of traffic to accompany them.  Finally, Dean spoke up. 

“Dean, by the way.  Name’s Dean.”  The corners of Castiel’s mouth turned up in response.  It was strangely satisfying.

“Hello, Dean.” 

\--

The nightmares never really stopped.

Sam remembered everything in excruciating detail, the sweating, and the shaking, and emptying his stomach.  Not having any control over his own body for days.  Feeling so low, wishing he just couldn't feel at all. Wanting it to end. He remembered bitterly how good it had felt before, and how he'd needed it; how he _still_ needed it.

It had been like possession, he wasn’t himself but he was trapped and scratching at the walls to be let out again.  To breathe again. 

It wasn’t what he dreamt about, though. 

His dreams were full of smoke, and sweat, and fear. His dreams were full of need. They were packed to the brim, just on the edge of euphoria, that sinking, tired bliss he couldn't ever quite reach.

In his dreams he could feel his brother’s strong arms latched up under his, legs useless and dragging against the ground. He dreamt of the sound of Dean’s voice telling him to stand up and to run, legs wobbly and radiating with white hot pain, ineffective.  He dreamt of his own hands shaking and wrapped white-knuckled around his brother’s wrists _begging_ him not to die for his mistakes, begging him not to go back into that black-smoke hell. He couldn't save them, he'd die trying.

Everything was already in flames.  Everything was already gone.

Sam's eyes opened wide, an apology bleeding from his lips, breathing hard and frantic as he clutched at his chest. 

There were a few horrible moments when he forgot where he was and a few more when he finally remembered.  When he was finally able to calm down, Sam turned over on his side and buried his fingers in his long bangs, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes. 

It was going to be a long night.

\--

Castiel liked the feel of Dean's body pressed against his as they made their way down dark streets.  Dean smelled like the old bar, but it was buried under something else, something like leather and soap. He was warm, too. Castiel found himself glancing over at him, eyeing the profile of his face, his soft lips, big, heavy lidded eyes.

He was beautiful.

“How far away do you live?”  Castiel asked.

“Mile out from th’ Roadhouse, not uh – not far now.  Next left…”  Dean seemed to hesitate for a moment, tipping his head a little dramatically to either side. “I think.”

“You _think_?”  Castiel went wide-eyed.  Dean just laughed, tugging him forward gently.

“Wh’ ‘bout you, mmm?  You usually pick up drunk strangers or’s this a new thing?” 

“New thing.”  

Castiel looked over at Dean again, now staring at the ground, no trace of a smile on his face.  His eyes were dim, Castiel realized.  Hooded and rimmed in red.  It looked like he hadn’t slept in a while.  That was something he could empathize with.  As soon as Dean noticed Castiel staring at him, Dean smiled and leaned clumsily into him, knocking him off balance.  Once Castiel found his feet again he shot Dean an indignant look, but Dean just stared back at him, his mouth crooked and half-smiling, a drunken blush creeping up his cheeks.

“You always so serious, man?”  Dean drawled, turning his face back toward the pavement to keep an eye on his feet.  “Jesus.”

“What about you?  Are you always so reckless?”  Castiel chided, his voice softer than he meant it to be, looking expectantly at Dean.  “Why would you walk home alone and _drunk_ in the middle of the night?” 

Dean shrugged, turning his face completely away from Castiel’s probing stare.

“Dunno.  Wanted to be on m’ own for a while, y’know?  Didn’t think I was’so far gone.”  Castiel cocked his head a little, contemplating.  “Figured I could walk a _mile_ but’cha saw how good _that_ went.  Turn here.”  Dean motioned clumsily to a small street on the left with his free hand.  There were a few small one story houses with cars parked on the grass outside them.  It wasn’t really a neighborhood but the houses were close enough together that it felt a little like one.

“Are you even old enough to be drinking?” Castiel asked, finally giving voice to his concerns.  Dean was broad shouldered but lean and his young face was more _pretty_ than _handsome_.  There was no chance of him being much older than Castiel, but his actions suggested otherwise.  Dean let out a short huff of a laugh as he veered them both right onto an even smaller street.  Castiel had to tighten the arm around Dean’s waist to keep him upright.

“Nah m’ not.  M’ eighteen.  Know th’ owner,” Dean responded quietly.  “Shouldn’t put that shit on her though.  Make her worry ov’r my irresponsible ass.”  Castiel looked over at Dean.  His eyes were fixed on the ground, and Castiel felt Dean's hand, draped over his own shoulder, ball into a fist.   “Here we are.” 

Castiel looked up and saw that they had dead-ended into the beat up driveway of an old house.

“You live here?” Castiel asked a little warily.  Dean didn’t respond other than to pull away, and reluctantly Castiel let him.  Dean swayed for a moment on the spot before turning to look back at him.

“Cazteel wasn’t’it?”

“Castiel,” he corrected.

“Casssstiel.” Dean repeated, smiling around the drawn out ‘s’. “Cool.”  Dean raked his fingers through his hair, and Castiel felt himself grinning despite himself.  Dean’s eyes darted down toward Castiel’s lips for a split second before meeting his eyes, and he looked pleased, but strained.  The same tension he'd been carrying around all night made more evident in the lull.  It made Castiel want to ask more questions.

"You didn’t have’ta help me, man.  But…  uh… thanks,” Dean said, palming the back of his neck almost shyly.  Castiel felt a blush creep up his cheeks and he was glad Dean was probably too inebriated to notice.

“Not a problem,” Castiel responded.  “Will you be okay?”

“Yeaaaah.  M’ the king of okay,” Dean said with a careless smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  Their stares met, and it was like Dean was waiting for Castiel to challenge him.  Like he knew that Castiel was curious, knew he wasn’t keeping up the charade as well as he’d like.  As if he was just waiting for the ball to drop. 

It never did.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel offered after a long pause.

“See ya, Castiel.” Dean turned and stumbled toward the door, and Castiel watched him until he disappeared inside. 

The silence surrounded him, suddenly alone on the dark street.  It was late, and he couldn’t avoid home forever.

\--

Dean stumbled into his house, turning into the living room and bumping his knees into the couch.  He nearly toppled head first over it.  Instead he slumped there, body hanging over the back, face pressed upside down into the cushions.  He groaned a little as the blood rushed to his head. 

He couldn’t get Castiel’s somber blue eyes out of his mind. 

“Interfering asshole,” Dean accused out loud.  He balled his fists weakly into the cushions.  He wasn’t actually angry, more embarrassed of having to be taken care of by some stranger. By some attractive, sharp-eyed stranger who looked like he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in a month.  “Didn’t have’ta do that,” he mumbled into the pillow. 

_Completely pathetic._

He slowly pushed himself back up and the room spun so badly he clutched at the sides of his head.  He was going to be so fucking hung over in the morning.  He made his way to the kitchen, bracing himself against the counters until he found his cell hooked up to a wall outlet.  It took him three tries to pull up Ellen's number, the screen bleary.

“M’ home, safe n’sound” he mumbled, leaning all of his weight against the cheap off-white counters.

“ _About time.  What took you?_ ”  Ellen asked, thinly veiled impatience in her tone.

“Scenic route,” Dean joked, thinking of Castiel. _  
_

“ _That boy Crowley and his little ‘gang’ were loitering outside the bar after you left.  Worried they might have tried somethin’._ ”

“With me?  C’mon Ellen.”  Dean started to physically puff up before remembering he was still alone.

“ _You’ve got no sense of self-preservation; it’s gunna bite you in the ass one of these days._ ”  Dean coughed out a laugh. 

“M’ tired Ellen and Sammy’s gunna kill me if I’m not at school in the morning.”

“ _Get to it, then._ ” She relented with a sigh.

“Night,” Dean finished, tugging the phone off its cord and shoving it in his back pocket.  Eyeing the analogue clock on the stove he saw it was already past one in the morning.  Great.

Dean barely made it to the couch before he collapsed, not even bothering to kick off his boots.

\--

Sam stretched out on the bed, feet dangling off the edge as his hands twisted in the thin white sheets. 

He would not miss this place. 

There was one window in the room, all the walls bare and sea foam green, which wasn’t a color he particularly hated before his stay but one he loathed passionately now.  The window itself was plated with two inch thick bulletproof glass and nailed shut.  He knew because in his weaker moments he had tried to pry it open and had only succeeded in ripping the skin off the pads of three of his fingers.  The nurse had fussed over him as she'd cleaned the wounds, and he'd promised her he wouldn’t try it again.  She had kissed him on the cheek and brought him an extra cookie with dinner that night.  Later his night terrors had been so bad he'd thrown it up.

Sam reached up to scratch at the inside of his elbow, the skin raw and sensitive.

He would _not_ miss this place.

In the morning he would be going home, and he was equal parts excited and terrified.  Excited to leave this dreary hospital but terrified to face his brother.  He knew Dean was angry, but it was worse knowing that Dean felt responsible for everything that had happened.  As if he had been the one to fuck everything up.  He needed to be better, needed to be okay so Dean could be too.

He needed not to let him down again.

Sam took a deep breath and sat up, running his fingers through his mussed up mop of hair.  He glanced at the cheap clock tacked above the door to his room and saw it was already past five in the morning. _Shit._   They would be sending someone in to wake him up in less than two hours.  

Not long enough for it to be worth it.  Not when every time he closed his eyes he felt phantom flames licking at his skin.

Sam spent the next hour reading in the dim light that leaked in through the window.  The book was an old hardback copy of _Mythology_ by Edith Hamilton, one of the only survivors from the fire.  It wasn’t a first edition but he treasured it like it was.  Dean was partial to dystopian novels by authors like Vonnegut and Orwell, but Sam loved history and mythos, and Edith Hamilton had been passionate in her interpretation.  

Eventually Sam's head started to ache from the strain of reading in the near dark, and it hit him with a fresh wave how much he hated this place.  Morning could not come quickly enough.

Sam, despite his reservations, had eventually closed his eyes and drifted back into a light, fevered sleep by the time there was a knock on the door.  He jumped a little at the sound.  A man dressed in a cheap black suit walked in, smiling politely and keeping his distance from the bed. 

“It looks like you’ll be leaving us today, Mr. Winchester.  Please meet me in my office to go over the last bit of paperwork as soon as you are dressed and ready, and we can have you on your way home.” Sam nodded, staring down at the bed sheets instead of at the man in front of him.  “Will your brother be joining us, or will you be taking a cab back?”

“A cab,” Sam replied.  Dean had tried to insist on being there when he was released, but it was a school day and Sam knew his brother missed enough school as it was.  It had been one of their bigger fights, but Sam Winchester was one of the only people in the universe who could occasionally out-stubborn Dean Winchester.  Originally, they had thought their father would be the one to pick him up, but true to form, John Winchester had disappeared right after Sam had been admitted to the hospital, and only called once every few weeks to check in. 

Sam couldn’t find the will to care anymore, but he knew it killed Dean every time John ran out.  Before the incident it had been a whole month without a phone call.

“Remember, Sam. Keep yourself out of trouble or next time it could be juvenile hall instead of a rehab facility.  I imagine you would have… trouble there.”  Sam looked up at him then, unsurprised by the doctor’s wide, unsympathetic grin.  They hadn't exactly gotten along.  Sam’s case was a bit unusual and garnered him a lot of negative attention from most of the staff and other patients. 

It had been a long four months.

“You don’t have to worry about seeing me again.”  Sam said, hardly holding back the malice in his voice.

“No, I suppose I don’t.  My office, twenty minutes,” the doctor finished, turning around to leave without waiting for a reply.  Sam rolled his eyes and threw up his middle finger as the doctor disappeared from view. 

It was time to go _home_.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean woke up to dim morning light and a headache that seemed to pulse through his entire body. 

It took him a minute to figure out where he was and how he'd gotten there, brief flashes of narrow alleys and confused blue eyes swimming in his head.  The previous night was all muddled, and dark, and it hurt like hell to think too hard.  He stood up on shaky legs, head throbbing as he stretched his tense muscles.  Dragging himself over to the window, Dean pushed the thin curtain aside, cursing at the light and the empty driveway. The Impala was gone.  He had walked home. 

_God dammit._

He twisted around to peer into the kitchen, squinting to read the clock from a distance.  He had about fifteen minutes to get dressed if he wanted to get back to the Impala and avoid getting to class late. 

Fuck that.  He was going to take his time. 

Two pieces of toast, five songs, and a shower later he left, sticking the spare key under the mat for Sam to find when he got home.  Before he could even make it past the driveway, though, a cab rounded the corner. 

Dean could see Sam hunched over in the back seat.  He was running a hand through his hair and staring wide-eyed out the window.  Dean’s whole body tensed up as he watched the car pull into the driveway, fists shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket.  Sam looked at him, first with surprise and then with something that looked a lot like guilt. 

Dean’s first instinct was to get the hell away.  To avoid the collision.  He really didn’t think he was feeling the whole reunion thing now that it was staring him in the face, no matter how many drinks he’d knocked back the past few months in an attempt to drown out how fucking heavily the entire thing was weighing down on him.  Instead, he moved forward as Sam stepped a foot out of the car.  Dean watched as his brother side eye the trunk when it popped open.

“Hey, Dean.  You were supposed to be gone by now.”  Dean rolled his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck.  His head was still killing him, and he had to squint against the morning light.

“Yeah well, surprise.  You weren’t supposed to show for three more hours.”

“I got an early start.” Sam shrugged, staring at Dean expectantly.  Dean hesitated a moment, sighing before pulling Sam forward into a tight hug, and he hated to admit how relieved he was when he felt his brother return it.

“It’s good to have you back, Sammy,” Dean confessed as he pulled away.  He backed up a few paces as Sam grinned and walked toward the trunk, reaching in to pull out a small worn suitcase.  Dean eyed Sam’s shaky limbs with a frown.  “No one’s expecting you today, so why don’t you rest up and you can get back into the swing of everything tomorrow?” 

Sam’s thumb traced the handle of his suitcase as he nodded, tired eyes taking in the tiny house and the unkempt yard.  Dean couldn’t help but notice the wary look. 

“It’s not much, but I fixed it up.  You know, painted the walls, curtains and throw pillows, the works.  It’s better than that shitty motel we were staying at before.” 

Sam looked at him with those big, sad puppy eyes as a small smile split his lips.  “It’s great, Dean.  I’m sure it’s great.” 

They stood there for a few painfully awkward seconds, Dean finally taking a couple more steps back toward the road.  He wasn’t sure if he should split or wait for Sam to speak up. 

“Where’s the Impala?” Sam finally asked as the cab backed out behind him, the smell of exhaust settling in the air.

“Roadhouse.  Left her there last night.  Heading over to get her now.” 

Sam eyed him, openly wary, but Dean shot him a look that told him to drop it.  Sam took the cue and shrugged, laughing conspiratorially as he walked toward Dean.  He grimaced as Sam clapped him hard on the shoulder.

“So, you and Jo?”  Sam’s tongue stuck out between his teeth as he grinned and Dean rolled his eyes.

“What?  No, it’s not like that with us.  She’s like… baby sister material,” Dean responded gruffly.

“Yeah.  Okay.  Whatever you say, man,” Sam conceded with a wink, and Dean pushed the hand off his shoulder.

“Alright, Morrison.  Get inside, and don’t touch my shit.  Your door’s the one on the left.” Sam nodded at him and smiled before walking back toward the door, toeing the welcome mat aside to grab the key. Dean turned and headed back down the street toward The Roadhouse. 

Dean exhaled slowly as he rounded a corner, hands shaking a bit.  Sam seemed okay, a little worn out and a little thin, but generally, all things considered, holding it together.  There was no point in worrying.  He felt his face settle in a soft frown as he entered the familiar alleyway that connected the main roads with the few crowded blocks of bars, and clubs, and small businesses.  He recalled the feel of concrete against his palms and knuckles, and firm, unfamiliar hands held fast against his shoulders. 

A name he should remember. 

Dean found the Impala parked at the edge of the lot, and he ran his fingers over her smooth, black hood and smiled before fishing out his keys and climbing in.  The stereo started as the engine turned over, his Zeppelin cassette picking up in the middle of “When the Levee Breaks”.  He cranked the dial, ignoring the way his head pounded at the noise, and lost himself in it. 

Dean wanted to drive, wanted to spend all day buried in apocalyptic blues and the familiar feel of the Impala’s engine purring against his tired muscles.  Instead, he headed toward the high school, one hand on the wheel while the other fished for his dad’s old flask in the glove compartment.

By the time he arrived at Kane Memorial High he was already fifteen minutes late.  Dean twisted the cap off the flask and knocked back the cheap whiskey.  It burned into his cheeks and behind his eyes, and he shivered, moving to take one more shot before climbing out of the car.  Dean felt his body begin to loosen and warm, his bag slung over his shoulder as he made his way into the school.

The bell rang just as Dean pushed his way through the double doors, and soon he was bumping shoulders with people whose names he’d never bothered to learn.  He kept his head up and moved forward, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone.  The headache he had woken up to was dulling, and his muscles relaxed as the drink burned its way through his veins, but he still squinted against the harsh overhead lighting. 

_Fuck this place._

“Hey, Winchester!  Finally decided to slum it with us mortals, huh?”  A familiar hand tugged him by the shoulder and he rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, trying to push down the dizzying pain as he spun around on the spot.  Jo smirked up at him as Dean swatted her hand, drawing it away with a cocked eyebrow.

 “Yeah well the sheriff’s back in town and he’ll bitch up a storm if I’m not at school.”  Dean couldn’t tell if his own tone was more humorous or derisive. He was toeing a thin fucking line.

Truth was he would have dropped out a long time ago if it weren’t for Sam’s insistence that it all mattered. Maybe to Sam it did. After the shit storm that had been the past year, and most of his life if he was being honest with himself, Dean was of the opinion that it was a waste of his time. A waste to get too attached to places, and people. They were a distraction from what had always been his primary job: taking care of Sam. Aside from that, he knew how to do everything he needed to get by.

“You’re letting your skinny little brother intimidate you?”  Jo teased, grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him in the direction of their next class.

“Ha ha very funny.”  And true.  He grimaced as he rubbed his eyes, circles of light blooming behind his eyelids.

“You okay?” Jo asked him, stopping for a moment to turn and look him in the face.  Dean frowned back at her and took a deep breath. 

No, he wasn’t.  Not really.  Hadn’t really been alright since the night he’d watched the house he’d spent two years in burn down in front of him, two people he couldn’t save burning inside it.  It had been the only real home he’d ever known  since he was four years old.  He'd spent most of his life moving around from shitty motel to shitty motel while his father chased after bad guys with bounties on their heads and a past he could never quite drink away.  

Dean hadn’t been alright since he had to watch his brother seizing on a motel bed beside him, teeth grinding into a worn brown leather belt.  Hadn’t been alright since he realized he’d been too caught up in his own fucking excuse of a “life” to notice how far gone Sam was.  How he hadn’t lifted a fucking finger to stop it. 

And how they were all still paying for it.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned, pulling Jo forward by their still-entwined arms.  This conversation wasn’t happening. “Dammit. I’ve got a hangover like you wouldn’t believe; can we skip the feelings talk and get to class so I can catch some shut eye?”  Jo let out a loud breath as she leaned in a little closer.

“You know it’s your own fault and I’m not going to feel sorry for you.” Dean groaned.  “My mom was worried about you, you know.  I mean, she didn’t say so, but she woke me up before you finally called to see if you had tried my cell by mistake.  What, you get lost? Where was your cell?”

“The battery was dead.  I left it at home," Dean explained, "And... not exactly.”  Jo stared up at him, lips pursed and eyes wide.  Anna used to look at him like that.  Dean’s heart tightened in his chest for a half a second before he pushed it away.  “It’s a little fuzzy, alright?  Not one hundred percent on how I got home.”  Dean mumbled the last part, slightly frustrated.  Jo simply rolled her eyes.

“Jesus.  How much did you drink?”

“Enough,” Dean answered with a grin.  Jo reached up and hit him playfully, flat palm on the back of the head.  A sharp pain split behind his eyes and he grunted, rubbing the spot as he shot her an angry glare. “Come on!”

Jo laughed and broke away, leaving him to nurse his aching head alone outside the door of his classroom.

Dean felt a wave of bodies brush past him as he slowly made his way inside, his teacher eyeing him from her desk with mild disapproval as he found a seat.  He might have missed her class two times in the past week.  As he buried his face in his arms, drowning out the chatter of the other students as they found their own seats, he almost felt bad for her.  Almost.

\--

Sam wasn’t sure what he'd been expecting, but it hadn’t been this. 

Somehow it had never occurred to him just how much of his past could burn away, and how difficult it would be to replace it.  Dean had done his best; the walls were the same color, the comforter a nearly identical pattern to the one he’d lugged around in the back of the Impala since he was a kid, and there was a shelf with a row of some of his favorite books. 

He could tell which books had been saved from the fire, and there were too few.  The ones dug out from the trunk of the Impala or charred at the edges, just barely having escaped the rubble of their old home.  Pieces of furniture survived, he knew, but they had stunk of smoke and damp and Dean had apparently opted to replace them rather than live with the reminder.  Sam was surprised at what Dean had built in his absence. 

Grief turned into details. 

It was just too deliberate; too similar for him to ignore and too different to lose himself in the illusion.

The last time he had seen his old comforter, Ruby had been laid down on it, a syringe in one hand and the other gripping at his wrist, pulling him down.  He had wanted it, wanted to lay beside her, fingers interlaced, and just feel. She'd been like fire, burning hot and licking at his skin, drawing him in with whispers and teeth and laughter like promises. 

The memory was odd, distorted. Like he wasn't remembering her the way he should.

There was the bite of a needle, the steady wave of euphoria. A swift climb up just to fall slowly back to earth.

She'd set the empty needle aside and he'd flicked the grated metal of the lighter, watched it flare orange across her skin.  The fire had licked at the metal bedposts so beautifully, reflections dancing on the walls and the sheets and every place it could touch and he'd wanted more. Her limbs wrapped around him, pulling him down again to steal a small, clumsy kiss between the blinding, exhausting bliss.  The flame had danced and grew against the soft sheets, spreading and holding them both as they fell deeper, faster.

Pleasure turned into terror and his body slammed against the walls, screaming filling his ears.  He'd stumbled until he couldn’t hear anything except his brother’s voice calling his name. 

He couldn’t breathe.

Sam’s hands shook as he pulled at the comforter, bunching it up in handfuls as the pillows rolled back against the headboard.   Once the bed was in believable disarray, Sam grabbed his worn trunk of belongings and dumped the items unceremoniously to the floor.  He stepped back for a moment to take in the mess, breathing hard as he tried to pull himself back together. 

He knelt with shaking limbs to pick up his mythology book and walked it to the shelf, running the fingertips of his free hand along the spines of the new collection.  He frowned as he slid the book into an empty space, a dull ache in his chest.

Sam eventually found his way between the stiff new sheets of his bed. 

It was only a little past noon but his tumultuous sleeping habits at the hospital had worn on him.  He stared at the bare walls, a soft familiar blue, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, knowing he deserved the reminders and the guilt.  At least the walls here weren’t a prison and the air didn’t stink of ammonia and dollar store air fresheners.  This place felt enough like home to ease the tension in his limbs, the thought that maybe here he could feel safe again, alone with only his own mind to offer him both consolation and blame. 

He eventually nodded off, and for the first time in almost a year he didn’t have a single nightmare.  Just void.

\--

When Dean finally came back it was well past dark, the house rattling as the front door slammed shut.  Sam pried his heavy eyelids open and shuffled out from under the sheets, one of his pillows falling on the floor beside him.  It took him a moment to get his bearings, the room near pitch black with only the soft light from the hallway seeping in through the crack under his door. 

He'd slept the entire day.  _Shit._

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!” Dean yelled, soft thud telling Sam his brother had backed up against the wall.  Sam rolled his eyes and walked to the door, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it somewhat.  When he peered out Dean leaned forward, a lazy smile on his face as he raised his eyes to Sam’s still thoroughly unruly mop of brown hair.  “No free trims at the spa retreat?  I’d think em’ fans of the high and tight.”  Dean motioned with flat palms to the sides of his head, approximating the shape of the military buzz cut to emphasize his point.

Sam snorted.  “Funny.  Where have you been?”

“With Bobby at the garage.  Working on a 69 Firebird.  You should see her, Sam, she’s a thing of beauty.  Nothin’ on my baby, of course, but really, what is?”  Sam grinned and walked past Dean toward the kitchen, seeing his brother’s eyes drop as he fell into step behind him.  Sam took a deep breath, itching to reach out, to say _something_ , but everything that came to mind had already been said a hundred times. _I’m sorry.  I won’t let you down again._  

Maybe for tonight the two of them could just be brothers.  It was worth a shot. 

Sam’s stomach felt like it was eating itself.  Being fifteen and already taller than your eighteen year old brother happened to be a good recipe for a bottomless goddamn stomach, and he hadn’t eaten anything since a single fast food biscuit on his way home that morning.  He looked around the hall and his eyes settled on a third door, one that didn’t belong to either him or Dean.  Dad’s room, maybe.  Sam took a deep breath.

“Dad?” Sam asked.

“What do you think?” Dean answered solemnly, voice low and brusque.

Dean passed Sam as they entered the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and peering inside.  He frowned.  “We’ve got, uh, beer?  Shit, I should’ve gone shopping.”  Dean looked a little too disappointed, picking up two bottles between his fingers and setting them easily on the counter.  He shut the fridge and opened the freezer.  After a moment of contemplation he shoved his hand inside and pulled out a large store brand frozen pizza, gesturing it toward Sam with a cocked eyebrow.

“Man, right now I’ll eat just about anything,” said Sam.  Dean nodded and shut the freezer, turning to set the box on the counter next to the drinks, moving toward the oven.  “We got anything to drink besides beer?” Sam asked, eyeing the drinks warily.  Dean looked back at him with a vacant expression, like he'd been somewhere else.

“Yeah, I think there's some sodas on the bottom shelf.” Dean finally answered, flipping a switch above the stove that started a noisy vent.  Sam looked at him questioningly.  “Our fire alarm is a little sensitive.” Dean offered as explanation.  Sam’s gut plummeted, but he shoved it away and nodded, moving to open the fridge.

It was alarmingly easy to fall back into the routine that was their lives before the fire, feet kicked up on the coffee table in front of their small television, reruns of _M.A.S.H._ drowning out the thoughts that wound in his mind.  It was comfortable, after nearly a year of turbulence, to pretend to be normal.  For once Sam was glad Dean sometimes had what seemed to be a near physical aversion to talking about anything remotely resembling feelings.  It meant they didn’t talk about the past. 

At least not tonight.

\--

Castiel tried not to think about it; a headline that'd read “Two Killed in Fire on Fifth, Suspected Arson”.

It hadn't been a long piece, all mostly conjecture at the time.  One of two victim’s names had been omitted per the family’s request.  Castiel's older brother Raphael didn’t want that kind of personal information on public record, especially when his dealings were so widespread.  His brother had this town in his back pocket.  

When they'd handed it to him, Castiel had merely blanched at the paper, heart throbbing in his throat and hands trembling.  He'd seen Anna’s name in-between the lines, and it had burned its way inside him. 

Everything had stopped for a long time after that.  He'd stopped.  He'd barely kept up with the trial.  Hardly remembered anything about the one who had done it; the boy who'd plead guilty, reportedly thin, and pale, and sick at the bench.  The boy who'd gotten off with a four month stint in rehab instead of locked up like his brother had wanted.

He was just a kid, after all.

Castiel stared blankly out at the empty street, splinters of wood from the porch digging through the thin fabric of his slacks as he adjusted his weight.  It was a warm enough night for September, but he shivered as the memories washed over him, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.  Zachariah had found him and Uriel earlier, told them the news. 

“Sam Winchester is back.”

Castiel had just stared at Zachariah, the name setting off sirens in his head.  Glancing over at Uriel had told him everything he needed to know.  His brother’s dark eyes had gone cold and focused; mouth set in a hard line.  Castiel hadn’t seen that anger on his face in a long time.  Knowing what his younger brother was capable of, he'd have been lying if he'd said it didn’t scare him.  Zachariah had simply looked pleased in a way that made Castiel feel sick.

His older brother had continued talking, but Castiel had stopped listening. The nervous fear had been a physical pain in his chest, his violent heartbeat threatening to deafen him. 

He barely had a thought to spare for the person who'd let a fire start in the same house as his sister.  He missed her.  He had fallen to pieces when she'd died, but he couldn’t find it in himself to _hate_ Sam.  Not when he had never meant to do so much harm.  It had been a mistake. The thought of coming face to face with him, however, made Castiel feel cold and angry. 

He knew Zachariah wasn’t going to leave Sam alone, and he didn't need to sit there and listen to Zachariah spell out plans just to confirm that fact.  That was what this was all about.  Zachariah's vendetta against Sam. In his mind this _boy_ was the reason he had lost everything.  It wasn't even about grief; it was about tipping the scales back in his favor.  He needed to make Sam’s life hell because he'd let Raphael down, couldn’t keep tabs on the problem child.

Zachariah had lost a precious commodity, and Raphael didn’t like people fucking with his things.

Castiel didn’t care.  He didn't have the luxary of caring, even if the idea of his sister and best friend being reduced to something as infinitesimal as a commodity made him want shut the door on his miserable family for good.

In the end Castiel’s consent was unnecessary.  It wasn't even an option.  He would stand behind his brothers the way he had always done.  In everything; despite everything.  It was all he knew. 

Sam meant nothing to him. 

He'd walked away without a word, the old front door creaking on its hinges as he'd stepped out into the mild September air. That was how he ended up on the porch, knees bent over the side, backs of his shoes kicking in the dead grass.  His hands shook as he raked them through his messy hair.

It had been nearly a year ago, the night Zachariah had stormed into his bedroom, the angriest Castiel had ever seen him, and told him there had been a fire, Anna was gone, and whoever had done it would pay.  The memory of Anna singing to him when he hadn’t been able to sleep for days, dizzy and worn from the exhaustion. It was all so suddenly inseparable from the realization that he would never hear her voice again.  He would be left to weather the panic, the insomnia, and his family alone, settling for long walks when sleep wouldn’t come. 

He knew tonight was going to be one of those sleepless nights. 

Castiel twisted a lock of hair behind his left ear and took a deep shaky breath.  His chest was tight and his throat dry. He had dealt with Anna’s death.  He had buried it.  He couldn’t shut down again.

Tugging harder, he breathed out melodies under his breath.

“ _You, you may say I'm a dreamer…_ ” Castiel closed his eyes and concentrated on the song. “ _But I'm not the only one,”_ His voice shook as he pushed the worry down inside himself and shut it away. He twisted his hair so hard it threatened to tear.  The tension in his shoulders leaked out and he breathed more steadily. “ _I hope someday you'll join us..._ ” 

He thought of Dean, the way he had a dozen times since they had met.  The way the other man’s body radiated heat beside him as they had stumbled forward on the sidewalk.  The memory was warm in a way that Castiel wasn’t used to.  Everything else felt like a cold burn.

Castiel opened his eyes and was met by the dull streetlight.  His trembling hand trailed down his neck, the skin beneath his hair stinging from the abuse.

“ _And the world will be as one._ "

\--

Sam knew he deserved every wary look, all the whispers that followed him through the halls. 

Everyone seemed to know who he was, and it wasn’t because of his brother or even Sam himself.  Not in any real way.  They didn’t recognize him as the scrawny kid who once got a nosebleed in a particularly heated game of dodge ball two years ago, or the kid who once stood up to the class bully and ended up sending him home with a black eye and a promise to make it a pair if he didn’t kindly fuck off for the rest of the semester. 

They remembered him from fifteen minute news segments and three by five clippings in the local paper. 

They knew him from the gossip that had spread the moment the school went into synchronized mourning for three days straight, Sam conspicuously pulled out of class the same week and eventually carted off to a hospital outside of town.  They recognized him as an outsider, always looking on a healthy six feet away with their heads turned, a sea of sideways glances sizing him up. 

Some of them didn’t know, or played ignorant, but the rejection was widespread enough that the other less informed students began to mimic the behavior.  If some of them didn’t know already, they would by midday – Sam Winchester was a freak.

At lunch he sat alone, his brother and Jo didn’t share the period with him and everyone else he knew from before the incident completely avoided him.  He remembered, with a dull ache is his chest, Ruby sauntering up to him one day in the cafeteria while he'd sat alone buried in his textbook, plopping down a lunch tray and shoving her way into the space beside him. 

She had been like a whirlwind, all toothy smiles and confidence as she rubbed limbs with him beneath the table.  Not a breath of hesitation as she invaded his space and his life and left him no choice but to fall into her. Once he'd found his voice they'd fought, and they never stopped fighting until they silenced one another, fumbling lips, both desperate for connection. 

There was no Ruby this time, just empty space stretching out at all sides, surrounded by meaningless noise.

He knew she had been no good for him.  She was as messed up as he was, reaching out for someone or something to keep her straight when life tugged her every other way.  She was too young.  She deserved a second chance just as much as he did. 

She would never get the opportunity to heal.

In the doorway of his last class one of his classmates engaged him.  He was the first, and if the exchange was any indicator of what to expect from everyone else, Sam hoped he would be the last.  The boy voiced what Sam knew everyone had been thinking.  _Freak. Burnout.  Murderer._ Sam stood there, frozen in the blinding light cast on his own sins, unable to meet the guy’s eyes and swallowing what felt like a stone in his throat.  There were others surrounding them, either nodding their agreement or avoiding eye contact, not so conspicuously taking note of the confrontation. 

Sam opened his mouth to speak but it was thick with cobwebs.  How could he fight back against the truth? 

Before he could do more than look up, someone stepped in front of him, a thin hand clasping his wrist gently and pulling him closer. 

“Leave him alone, Steve.”  The girl said, her brown eyes set in a cold glare.  Steve seemed to shrink, gaze darting toward the other classmates before settling back on her.

“You know who that is, Jess?” Steve shot back.  Sam stared wide eyed at the back of her head, loose golden curls falling over her slight shoulders.  Jess.  Her name was Jess.

“I don’t care.  And neither should you.”  Jess continued, squeezing Sam’s wrist again before letting go, looking back at him as she smiled and nodded toward an empty seat.  He took a shaky breath and turned away from the group, lowering his head as he slid into the desk. 

Once the class was over he rushed out, anxious to get to his locker for his books and then out of the school as fast as humanly possible.  His locker was at the other end of the building, though, and the halls had nearly emptied by the time he'd pushed his way there. The other students flocked to the bus ports or parking lot in an effort to cut each other off. 

Once Sam stuffed his books in his bag and turned around, he found himself face to face with a hulking mass of a man, two shorter men situated at varying degrees of closeness behind him.  One was slightly overweight, skin pallid, standing with his feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back.  The other one had dark hair and circles under his eyes.  He didn’t look at him, seemed like he didn’t want to be anywhere near the situation.

“Winchester.  We’ve been waiting for you,” said the heavier man over the shoulder of his gigantic accomplice.

“Do I know you?”  Sam asked, taking a step back against the lockers, eyes darting around for an exit or a battle strategy if it came down to it.  He wasn’t sure he could take all three of them.  He breathed hard, clenching his fists against his sides.

The hulk glared knives at him, his lips tight against his teeth.  “You should, you fucking -”

“WHAT my charming brother means to say is that you and I spent a deal of time together quite some months ago.”  The heavier man put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and pulled him back out of Sam’s personal space, a wide unsympathetic grin on his face.  “I’d assumed you’d remember me at least.  My name is Zachariah Novak, and these are my brothers, Castiel,” he pointed to the solemn dark haired boy behind him, “and Uriel.” He pointed at the hulk. 

When Sam didn’t respond, Zachariah rolled his eyes, looking for a moment genuinely perturbed. 

“Nothing?  How about Raphael Novak, you should know him.  Spent a lot of time trying to get you put away, but you went compliant and ended up wasting all his efforts.” 

Sam’s mouth went dry.

“Anna’s brother?” Sam choked out, voice barely above a whisper.  He saw Castiel shift at the sound of her name, the other two moving forward menacingly.

“We have a winner,” Zachariah said, with completely false enthusiasm.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Sam mouthed, his hands trembling. 

He would never forget Anna, the girl Dean had brought home the night of the fire.  Sam had barely known her, but he remembered her thin fingers laced with Dean’s, and her large, sad eyes as she glanced at the track marks on the insides of his arms before he could cover them.  She had wanted something.  To get away, Dean said.  

Looking up at the three boys, Sam thought he might understand a little better what she was running from. 

“What do you want with me?” Sam asked.  Zachariah laughed.

“Me?  Nothing.  Uriel, though, he’s got a bit of an anger problem.  Hasn’t really properly worked it out.”  At that, Uriel stepped forward, his eyes set cold and dark as he grit his teeth, fist swinging forward toward Sam’s face.  Sam shifted instinctively to the side as the blow connected with the locker, a loud echoing crash in the silence.  “You see what I mean?” Zachariah went cold, the diplomatic smile wiped from his face. 

Uriel raised his fist again in the split second before Sam heard Dean’s voice, loud, and gruff, and plainly pissed.

“You so much as fucking touch him I’ll rip you’re goddamn lungs out.”

 --

Dean saw red as he shot forward. 

He threw himself in front of Sam and grabbed Uriel by the collar, his fist drawn back and shaking.  Uriel seemed to smile, and Dean was about ready to punch the grin right off his fucking face when there was movement behind him.  Dean glanced up, wide blue eyes meeting his own. 

He knew those eyes. 

“Castiel?” Dean half shouted, only realizing he knew the name after it had left his mouth.  Castiel stared back at him with a forced calm.  Dean felt the anger bubbling up again as Uriel began to push against him, and he took the opportunity to raise his elbow, the force of Uriel’s own movement slamming Dean’s arm hard against his windpipe.

“Are you _with them_?” Dean yelled louder, shoving Uriel away as the huge man gasped for air.

“Who is this?”  Zachariah shot at Castiel as he took a step back, a hand on Uriel’s arm to keep him from attacking Dean head on.  Uriel looked pissed, and Dean would have laughed if he weren’t so angry.  He felt a shiver run down his spine as he clenched his fists tight, arms up to protect himself.

“I’m his _brother_.  Who the fuck are you?” Dean spat. 

Zachariah’s eyes went wide, and Castiel sucked in a breath.  Dean stared until Castiel met his gaze again, a part of him trying desperately to reach out.

“Dean?”  Castiel asked in a low voice.  He sounded confused, and if Dean wasn’t mistaken, seriously _pained_.  Dean didn’t break the contact, his heart racing as Castiel tipped his head to the side, the same penetrating stare he remembered from before.  Like he was trying to pick him apart. 

Castiel looked so damn conflicted. What the hell was he doing here with _them_?

“Dean Winchester?” Zachariah asked, exasperation peeking through a forced calm.  Dean finally looked away from Castiel, glaring over to Zachariah instead as Zachariah lowered his arm from Uriel.  That dick was planning to go after both of them.

\--

When Uriel had thrown the first punch it was as if Castiel had been shocked out of a daze.

The sound went through him, white hot, vivid, and he couldn't stand there anymore pretending it wasn't happening. He'd been in this position before, standing behind his brothers because he'd never done anything else, never had a choice, but this was different.  This was base and violent, a cruel assertion of power.  This was an assault. 

"Cas this is fucked up, you _know_ this is fucked up," Dean said, his voice hard and angry.

Castiel met his eyes, a shock of green.

Dean. Dean Winchester.  Sam Winchester's  _older brother_.  Castiel couldn't even begin to process that information, even as he warmed at the sight of him. Every instinct wanting to protect him.

Dean set his jaw, heavy lidded eyes going narrow. Castiel's chest felt tight, his heart racing and thrumming in his ears.  Seeing Sam had made him go cold, and he thought he could ignore the voice in his head telling him this was wrong. That Zachariah was making a mistake. Castiel knew he didn’t want this, though. Didn't want to be this person. He couldn't understand what there was to be gained.

He didn’t want revenge, he wanted peace. Anna would have wanted peace.

"The hell is this?" He heard his brother yell.

"Cas!"

Before Castiel could stop himself, he was shouting. 

“Zachariah stop this _now_.”  His voice was steady and imposing as he strode forward, cold eyes glaring down at his brother.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” Zachariah asked dangerously, looking up at Castiel, confused. 

“Attacking a student on school grounds?  Zachariah, it’s insane,” he replied, trying to be logical.  Castiel thought he could reason with his brother; end this now before anything could get worse.  He had to try.  

Zachariah stared at him, wide eyed, and Uriel turned to look at him as well.

“Who are you to give me orders, Castiel?”  Zachariah spat, anger showing freely.  Castiel’s eyes flickered to Dean, who was staring at him with his mouth half open, one arm thrust out in front of Sam protectively. That was what family was _supposed to do_.Protect each other.  Zachariah was only interested in his own revenge scheme, and not even out of love or grief, but because he was angry at losing Raphael’s trust. 

It was _obscene_. 

Zachariah followed Castiel’s gaze, and when he saw Dean he laughed.  “This.” He gestured to Dean.  “This changes nothing.”

“I won't let you hurt them.” Castiel continued; his fist clenched at his side as a threat.  In a fair fight Zachariah was no match for Castiel.  Uriel was a different matter entirely, but Castiel didn’t think his younger brother would attack him.

“You’re protecting this… _abomination_?” Castiel’s eyes darted over to Sam this time.  He felt his hands go clammy and he tasted copper, but he wasn't going to back down.  Not now.  His brother was wrong.  Zachariah laughed cruelly. “How are you going to stop me Castiel?”  He gestured to Uriel, who approached him slowly, very obviously reticent.

“If you insist on a fight, I count three against two, Zachariah.”  His eyes flickered to Dean again.  “I don’t like your odds.”

Zachariah gaped at him; a look of horror mixed with an unspoken promise of retribution.  Castiel’s heart pumped hard as the adrenaline buzzed in his veins.  He wasn’t scared.  Zachariah could threaten him but he wouldn’t dare risk Raphael finding out.  He was supposed to keep it all together, and Castiel was tugging a loose thread.  

Uriel just looked betrayed, eyes darting back and forth between his brothers.

“Fine,” Zachariah said, taking up a falsely compliant tone.  “I suggest you find your own way home, little brother.” 

Castiel sucked in a breath.  He felt his pulse hammering in his throat, in the tips of his fingers, but he stood steady and didn't let it show.  Castiel watched his brothers disappear down the hall, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. To ease the pounding of his heart. 

Everything was white noise until he felt a warm hand grip his shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for panic attacks

“Cas.”

There was that voice again.

Castiel had been fixated on it.  He couldn’t understand why it warmed him so much to think of the stumbling drunk green-eyed boy from the other night.  To think of Dean. The way his lips pursed together when he tried to concentrate, or the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed.  Maybe it was because even when he was apparently too drunk to keep himself upright he never seemed helpless.  Dean kept moving forward, he kept fighting.

Maybe Castiel couldn’t let go because Dean had smiled.  No one had smiled at him in such a long time, and he couldn’t help but let himself be caught up in it.  Warmth was not something that he was used to. It wasn't something he'd had in a long time.

The hand tightened, but Castiel couldn’t move.

He stared at the empty spot in the hallway where his brothers had just been.  The image of them, his _family_ , walking away. It hurt.  It grew inside him so fast he couldn’t stop it.

It hadn’t been like this.  Not for months, not this bad, but he felt it like a fist in his gut; the twitch of his heartbeat in his thumbs, and his throat, and his ears.

He was going to be sick.

He took a deep breath. There was an energy trapped just under his skin and it burned, and it vibrated, and he fought to keep from dragging his nails across his knuckles, from biting back gasps of air.  His family was falling away, falling _apart_ , and he couldn’t fix it.  He didn't know how to fix it. They were broken... he was...  _There's a shadow hanging over me, Oh, yesterday came suddenly._ It was like drowning, terrifying, and he felt his hands clench up, his fingers itching their way up his neck to find the loose strands of hair that curled just under his ear to tug and to rip.  _Why she_ _had to go I don't know, she wouldn't say._  

Castiel tried to push it away, but the reality that was setting in, about what he had done, what comes next. It was heavy and it was thick and all he could feel was it scratching relentlessly in the space right beneath his ribcage and the hollow of his throat and there was acid there and it burned and his body wanted to _get it out get it out_.  _I said, something wrong._

The walls expanded and then drew in around him, his chest aching under the weight of his heartbeat. He tried to stop it, to find a quiet place in his mind because he didn't do this in public he _couldn't._

Castiel just didn’t know, didn’t _really_ know what Zachariah would do or how deep the wound had cut.  His family was falling apart, and it had been for years.  Slowly, piece by piece, and he had willingly torn new holes. The next breath he took was shallow, near pointless, vision kinking.

He needed to breathe.

He felt it all as a physical pain, a lead weight dropped on his chest, a thing that was grown from doubt and fear and smallness to burrow inside him and he hated that he couldn’t seem to rein it in or cast it out because he was wrong.  They told him he was wrong.  _Something wrong._

He couldn’t hold on to the lyrics and the same ones rolled over and over and over in his head. 

_Something wrong, Something wrong._

 The hand against his shoulder shook him hard and he finally started to listen.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean shook him again, and it felt like every nerve in his body was suddenly centered on that spot, pinpricks of energy where each of Dean’s fingers dug into his skin. 

He let himself be turned around, forcing himself to meet Dean’s wide, confused eyes.  The look melted into one of frustration as Castiel fought to hide the way his hands trembled, tried to focus on the here and now and not the bugs writhing under his skin, holding his breath to keep from gasping and heaving like a sobbing child. He felt dizzy, like the world was falling away from him. 

He wanted to let it.

“Cas what the hell was that all about?  Who the hell were those dicks?” Dean asked.  Castiel stared, thinking he saw a look of concern flash in Dean’s eyes, but that was impossible.  It had to be.  When he looked for it again it was gone.  “Why were you with them?”

Castiel licked his lips with his too dry tongue and it stuck momentarily against the skin. 

“They’re my brothers,” he answered simply, eyes darting over to Sam.   _Dean is Sam’s brother_ , he reminded himself as he clenched his shaking fists and felt his breath catch in his throat.  He had grown up pretending he was alright and he could do it again.  He wasn’t going to break in front of them. 

“I really don’t see the resemblance.” Dean’s mouth quirked in a grin,  and Castiel’s heart sped up in a completely different way.  He liked the way Dean looked when he smiled.  He liked it too much.  He had spent the last two nights with the warm memory of it branded into his head, clinging to the feeling like a lifeline.  “What the hell did they want with Sam?”  Dean continued, the smile gone. 

Castiel sucked in a breath.

“Cas is Anna’s brother, Dean.”  Sam interjected quietly.

“He’s wh-  You are?” For the first time Dean’s expression went soft, his eyes frantically searching Castiel’s for something like confirmation.

“I am,” Castiel finally breathed, and he couldn’t keep Dean’s gaze.  His heart was still thumping hard in his throat and it was hard to keep the tremor from his voice. 

He really, really didn’t want to do this.  He needed to get out, get away, get somewhere private where he could force the nerves out through his mouth, heaving dry and violent, heart ready to burst through his chest, but he couldn't because he was completely, utterly trapped.  He realized he was moving, backing away from Dean and Sam, and he stopped himself, digging his nails into his palms until the skin threatened to tear under the pressure.

He tried to separate himself from it, let it fall into the backdrop.  Let everything else fall with it.

“Cas?” Dean asked quietly, like he was ashamed; one syllable hanging from his lips like an apology.  It was too tender, and too familiar, and it burned through Castiel like heady liquor.  It kept him present.

“My brothers are… angry.  I don’t know what they hoped to accomplish with this.  I didn’t want any part of it.” Castiel amended, unsure of how to explain himself or whether he even needed to at this point.  The words just spilled out awkwardly in the silence.

“Then why were you?” Dean asked, his voice hard again as he pulled back from the shock.  

“It’s family, Dean, I’d think you’d understand,” Castiel replied defensively, chancing a glance at Sam. 

Dean responded with the turn of his lips and the crease of his brow.  Through the frustration his green eyes read something like understanding, and that calmed Castiel marginally.  It shouldn’t matter what Dean believed.  But it did.

“Thanks, Cas.  For standing up for us, I know it had to be difficult,” said Sam, stepping forward with a tentative smile.  Castiel went cold, his eyes searching Sam’s young face, too thin.

“I didn’t do it for you.  I did it because my brother was making a mistake,” Castiel snapped.  "Our family has been through too much already."  He didn’t need Sam’s validation; he didn’t want it.  He shouldn’t want Dean’s.  

Castiel took a deep breath and turned his eyes away, searching the lockers and the tiled floors for distraction. 

“Will they try something again?”  Dean asked, pointedly ignoring the tense exchange.

“I’m certain Zachariah will.  Uriel… he’ll do whatever my brother asks,” Castiel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck idly.  He felt nauseas, a ball of nerves settling uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach.  He swallowed the heartbeat in his throat and his breath along with it.  He had to get out.

“If they come near him again, I’ll fucking –“ Dean started.

“Dean, I can take care of myself,” Sam interrupted, his feet set and his eyes hard.  Dean glared back at him.

“Yeah?  You’ve been doing a bang up job with that so far.”

Castiel turned away from the brothers, shoving his shaking hands into the pockets of his slacks as he drew circles against his skin through the thin cloth.  He was going to throw up.  The anxiety was too physical, too tangible and his skin crawled with it.  The air tasted stale as he gulped it in, quietly as he could, guiding himself forward with the diamond shapes painted into lines like soldiers along the cheap tiled floor. 

Heavy footsteps followed him before he could make any real progress toward the washroom.

“Wait, Cas. Are you gunna be okay?” Dean asked, voice a little gentler than before.  Castiel clenched his teeth together and stopped, letting his breath trickle out slowly between the gaps.  _Please leave me alone please._

“I can handle it.”  Castiel said quietly, his back still turned.

“Look man, I’ve got a car, and that’s better than walking or calling a cab," Dean pushed.  "If you need a ride home, just say so.  Kinda owe ya."  Castiel turned to look at him, dragging his gaze from Dean’s mouth up to his wide eyes.  He was so strangely open in his offer. 

“I’m not going home.  I should… avoid my brothers for now,” he replied. _I should avoid you._

“Then crash at our place till you can.  Look, I get it.  And I’m... sorry about your sister, and this whole mess.  Sam’s a good kid, though, I swear.” 

“No, you _don’t_ get it.  I wouldn’t _want_ you to get it.”  Castiel snapped, taking a step forward.  Dean shouldn’t have to know what it’s like to lose a sibling, to lose your best friend.  No one should. 

Dean frowned and let out a sharp breath, pointedly avoiding his eyes. 

“Just come with us.  Where the hell else are you gunna go?” Dean grunted, palming the back of his neck.  Castiel gaped at him for a few seconds, but Dean held firm. 

Castiel sighed. He was right.  He had nowhere else to go.  The school wasn’t anywhere near his home, and at the very least he could wander the streets around and behind The Roadhouse the way he did most nights.  At least it would get him close.  He hated to admit, despite the anger, there was a tiny part of him that just wanted to go with Dean for no other reason than to be close to him.  Complicated.

“Fine,” Castiel finally agreed.  “I’ll meet you at the second entrance in ten minutes, Does that work for you?”  Dean nodded, and Castiel barely stopped himself from full-on sprinting to the washroom, biting the inside of his lip so hard it almost broke through the skin.

Once he was alone in the stall, he gasped for air, heaving into the dirty bowl until his was shaking and so weak he could barely keep himself upright.  He tasted tears and stomach acid on his tongue as he wiped his face with his pale, shaking hands.  He stayed there for far too long, bent over on the floor of a public high school bathroom, counting out the seconds it took to fill his lungs with air again.

\--

Fifteen minutes passed, and there was still no sign of Cas. 

Dean had the Impala parked across from the curb where Cas said he’d meet them.  He blared his Zeppelin cassette out the half-open windows, tapping his fingers along the sun-warm leather steering wheel.  Sam didn’t say a word, and Dean didn’t try to make him.  First day back and already things were shit backwards, the whole school treating his brother like he had the goddamn plague.  He could tell the moment they walked in together that morning that eyes were trailing Sam from every angle.

Dean had fallen into anonymity after everything had gone wrong.  He used to enjoy school, to a certain extent.  At least the social aspect of it, and the classes that were more about understanding than memorization, which were honestly few and far between.  English class had always been his pet favorite, not that he was willing to flaunt that sort of information around. 

When they had first moved here and he'd found out that they were going to set down some semi-permanent roots, Dean had unfolded.  He'd started making connections instead of making scenes.  He was always good at getting attention, had a natural charisma and nonchalance born from never staying in one place long enough for anything to actually matter, and he had more than a few exes scattered throughout the continental US. 

Here, though, he'd finally had friends. 

But Dean had become complacent.  He let his guard down, and they had lost everything because of him.  It was the only job his father had given him:  _Protect your brother.  Protect Sammy._   He had failed so fucking spectacularly.  Aside from Jo, Ellen, and Bobby, who were so deeply integrated into his life they might as well be called family, Dean had cut ties.  He didn’t party, didn’t flirt, didn’t shoot the fucking breeze.  Some days he went to class, and some days he stayed at home and knocked out seven beers and three shots of Jack and counted down the days until Sam was coming home or the hours till his body would finally give out. 

Some days he walked home shitfaced from The Roadhouse under the arm of some slender, blue-eyed stranger who would then proceed to barrel back into his life in the most ridiculous fucking way imaginable.

Seriously, Satan himself could not have orchestrated this shit to be any more complicated.

Cas pushed his way through the double doors, looking sickly pale in the sunlight.  Dean was sure he hadn’t been that pale before, though he had been acting strange.  He wasn’t sure if that was just Cas or something else.  The dark sleepy bruises and red around his eyes made the blue of his irises stand out in stark contrast, even from across the street.

 _Christ, those eyes._  

Cas looked around until he spotted Dean, and he lifted his hand in a little wave before stepping off the curb and heading toward the driver’s side of the car.  Dean reached over and turned down the dial on his stereo. 

“You waited,” said Cas quietly through the window, like he couldn’t really believe it.

“Sure looks that way.” Dean responded, watching the edges of Cas’ mouth turn up into a brief smile.

“Your music is very… loud.”  Cas continued after a breath, his eyes taking in the car’s interior.

“It’s Zeppelin.  There’s no other way to enjoy it, man,” said Dean with a smile of his own, reaching behind him to pop the lock on the back door.

“I’ll take your word on that.” Cas opened the door and slid in.  Dean watched him through the rear view mirror, body awkward and stiff as he pulled on the seat belt.  Dean could feel himself grinning like a fucking idiot and he quickly corrected it, pressing his lips together as he reached for the gear shift. 

“You all set back there?” Dean asked, and he saw Cas nod rigidly and attempt to lean back against the seat, halfway through readjusting himself before he leaned forward again, straightening his back and bracing himself with both hands on his knees.  Dean had to hold his breath to keep from laughing.  He put his right hand on the back of Sam’s headrest, stealing a glance at his brother, who was staring absently out the passenger side window, before turning his head completely around. 

When he looked back he saw Cas gaping at him with this ridiculous intensity, and it was so goddamn weird that Dean just smiled and winked because he had no idea what other reaction to have.  Cas went beet red and turned his head to stare out the window instead, and Dean backed out of the space. 

This was going to be a _fun drive_.

\--

Dean watched Cas through the mirrors.  He didn’t mean to, he sure as hell didn’t fucking want to, but the guy just looked so lost and exhausted when he didn’t think anyone could see him, and Dean was only human.  He reached to turn the volume down on the stereo again, and both Sam and Cas looked up at the sudden silence.

“I was enjoying that.” Cas said quietly, and Dean couldn’t help but smile.

“Everyone likes “Stairway to Heaven”, it’s a classic.”

“I know I’ve heard it before, but I didn’t recognize any of the other songs.  It’s… a little strange.  Abrasive for my taste.”

“Zeppelin?  Seriously?  No it’s just the right mix, a little blues, a little rock and roll.  Soul food for your ears, man.  What do you like?  I bet you like a bit of Simon Paul, huh?” he teased, and his eyes met Cas’ through the rear view mirror.

“I do," he said earnestly.  "I really enjoy Simon and Garfunkel.  The Beatles are my favorite, though.”  Dean rolled his eyes dramatically, and he could practically feel Cas burning holes in the back of his head with that glare.

“The Beatles?  Fucking weak pop shit compared to real classic rock icons!  I mean, okay they had a few good songs and Lennon was alright when he went solo, but seriously Zep, Aerosmith, AC/DC, Blue Oyster Cult, Rush!  Cas. Jesus.”  Cas had a look of such intense frustration that Dean couldn’t help but laugh.  “Come on, I bet you’re the type of guy who likes the Gary Jules cover of “Mad World” better than the Tears for Fears version.”

“ _Everyone_ likes that version better, Dean!” Both Cas and Sam answered at the exact same time, and Dean couldn’t fucking believe what he was hearing.

“No, no way.  The Tears for Fears version is clearly superior.  Okay, first off it’s not pandering to fucking mainstream media like the gloomy bullshit ballad Jules turned it into.  The Tears version is all about alienation in this weirdly ironic upbeat way.  And the goddamn music video is great, man, this guy’s singing and just full on having a moment with this window in his room and there’s a guy dancing outside and the fucking birthday party and it’s SO EIGHTIES I just, you gotta see it.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”  Cas asked, giving him a look that was split halfway between confused and concerned, his eyes narrowed.

“No.”  Dean paused, huffing out a breath as he looked back at a still confounded Cas.  “It’s hilarious.”

Dean spent the rest of the ride attempting to educate Cas with his collection of classic rock cassettes while Sam made fun of him because ‘who the fuck even listens to cassettes anymore?’  Dean punched him in the shoulder while Cas rummaged through the center console for artists he recognized.  Surprisingly, the guy knew his stuff, even if his opinions on AC/DC just being pointless noise made him want to lock Cas up in a room and play "Back in Black" on repeat until he had a rock related epiphany.  

It was almost enough to distract Dean from the sickly pallor of Cas’ face and Sam’s far away looks.  This shit was a complicated mess, and he knew bringing Cas home with them was just going to make it worse. 

Once they got back to the house, Cas seemed hesitant about going inside, but once Sam disappeared down the dark hallway to his bedroom, he followed Dean into the living room, bright eyes raking in the scene.  He was starting to look a little better, his eyes still watery, sunken in and bloodshot, but the color was back in his cheeks and his body was more relaxed. 

Dean realized he had been staring when Cas looked back at him.

“I like your home.” Cas said conversationally, trailing slender fingers across the couch cushions like it was the first time he had encountered such a thing.  “I’m grateful.” Cas continued, his whole body going still.  “Especially after what happened with my brothers, you didn’t have to be so… accommodating.  I won’t overstay my welcome.”  Dean frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Don’t have to make a big deal out of it, man.  The couch is yours as long as you need it.”  Cas met his gaze, and Dean felt his breath catch in his throat.  Cas’ expressions were so reserved, but it felt like looking into the eye of a storm.  There was so much intensity just underneath the surface.  It seeped into his muscles and out through his burning blue eyes. 

“Thank you, Dean,” he said seriously, and Dean shrugged.

“No problem, Cas,” Dean smiled and rubbed the back of his neck.  “You know I didn’t forget how you helped me out.  You didn’t have to do that.”

“You mentioned.  Multiple times,” Cas responded with a quick smirk.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t.  So thanks for that.  You seem to be pullin’ my sorry ass out of sticky situations every time we see each other.”  They stared at each other for half a beat longer than necessary before Dean finally rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  “Anyway, you hungry?  We’ve got frozen pizza, half a bag of Cheetos, and beer.”

\--

Sam buried himself in his homework.  He was completely lost in all of his classes, but studying was the kind of thing he excelled at, or least it was when his head wasn’t swimming.  Instead of reading the words, he just stared blankly at the creased edges of the textbook, running them over with his fingers when he couldn’t sit idle any longer.  

He didn’t know what to think about what had happened.  Ruby hadn’t really had a family, just a deadbeat junkie dad that spent more time telling her everything that was wrong with her than actually attempting to be a father.  Anna, though.  He hadn’t known her family at all, aside from her daunting and stoic older brother Raphael who was never too far away during his legal proceedings, and that had only been after her death.  

It was awful, dwelling on the way Zachariah had looked at him like he was lower than the dirt on his shoe, or the way Uriel had seemed downright elated at the idea of getting his hands on him. 

Sam moved his hand to the inside of his elbow, scratching at the skin idly.

Cas was something else entirely.  He had stood up for them even when he had every reason to hate Sam, every understandable motive to want whatever his brothers had been planning. Sam couldn’t imagine anything worse than losing a sibling.  He didn’t know what he would do if he ever lost Dean.  The way he had acted about his brothers, it was obvious losing his sister had caused more than grief.  It had broken them, somehow.  Sam knew what broken people looked like. 

He was grateful, but he was the last person that deserved Cas’ kindness. 

Sam pressed his nose up against his textbook and shut his eyes.  He didn’t deserve a second chance, not when Ruby and Anna were gone.  All he deserved was the hatred, the alienation, and the guilt. 

He dug his nails into his arm, scratched it raw.

He missed it.  He missed the way he used to feel, languid and euphoric and better than he could ever hope to feel again.  He remembered the need, how all he could want in the end was more and more _and more_ , and he had tried and grasped for it, but every hit had come slower and more painful, and every low was worse and took him further away. 

Reality was hell. 

It was awful when the memories weren’t as fogged with want, and need, and craving, and the disgusting truth of it came crashing in.  It had been horrible, sick, and he didn’t want it back. 

His body still ached like it did. 

Sam took a deep breath and stood up, pacing circles around his room and rolling his knuckles between his fingertips.  Eventually he left the room completely, padding quietly down the hall to the living area where he could hear the god awful Tears for Fears version of “Mad World” blaring from his laptop’s shitty built-in speakers.

Cas sat forward on the couch, staring at the computer with a completely baffled expression, and Dean was nearly draped over his shoulder, laughing and reaching forward to touch the screen with his fingers.  The two of them seemed to take turns watching each other rather than the actual video, awkwardly turning to look back at the screen every time the other caught them in the act. 

Okay.  That was… weird.  Dean looked… happy, though.  The kind of happy he hadn’t really been around Sam in a good long while.  And Cas looked comfortable.  Judging by how unbelievably tense he had been earlier, Sam considered this to be a major improvement.  He had been positive Cas was going to throw up in the school hallway. 

Part of him wanted to talk to Cas.  To try and make amends.  Where could he even begin to apologize for something like this, though? 

Sam bit back a sigh and went quietly back to his room.  Once there he genuinely attempted to study, finally managing to read through and comprehend a few pages of the dense narrative.  He fell into his old routine, pencil rolling under his fingers in between underlining and writing notes in the margins.  He hoped there would be a quiz the next day; at least that was one thing he could get right.

\--

“Last call, Cas.”  Dean yelled from the kitchen in between swigs of beer.  “I don’t want you going through the fridge in the middle of the night.”

“I told you I’m fine.  I don’t need anything else.”  Castiel responded from the couch, torso draped over the armrest and head tilted so he could look into the kitchen at Dean as he grabbed a handful of frozen malt balls from the freezer.

“This,” Dean said, holding out one of the candies between his thumb and forefinger for Castiel’s inspection, “Is awesome.”  He popped it into his mouth, groaning happily as he bit through the crunchy shell, and Castiel thought he was giving the small frozen candies a little too much credit.  Dean grinned and turned the corner, followed shortly after by the sound of a hollow glass bottle hitting the bottom of a plastic trash bin. 

Castiel stopped paying attention once his eyes roamed over to the brightly lit analogue clock on the stove.  Every time he saw another minute pass, another hour, the anxiety crept back, wrapping its hands around his throat.  But it was nothing, nothing he hadn't gotten used to pushing down.  Nothing like earlier. 

His body tensed at the memory, and he let out a slow breath. 

His brothers wouldn’t bat an eyelash at him being gone this late, it’s not like his insomnia was a secret.  He’d always been in and out at weird hours, and they'd stopped caring about him disappearing ages ago.  Still, he should be there in the morning.  Raphael was fine with his midnight walks, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by not coming home at all.

He definitely didn’t need any of them to find out where he was.

“Hey Cas, you with us?” Dean was hovering over him, frowning as Castiel looked back up at him.

“I’m fine,” he responded.

“That’s good, but not actually an answer to the question I asked," Dean said, frowning. "Maybe you should get some sleep, you look beat.”  Castiel nodded slowly, knowing Dean was right but highly doubting it was going to happen.  The bouts of stress were growing more frequent, and as much as he realized he enjoyed Dean’s company, he really just wanted to be left alone. 

Dean seemed to understand. 

“Alright well, I’m off to catch a few hours.  Don’t wreck the place.  Turn the damn light on if you gotta piss in the middle of the night or else you’re deep cleaning whatever mess you make.  Understand?”

“I’m not a child, Dean,” Castiel answered with a frown.

“Yeah, well, neither is Sam and I’ve spent my whole life sharing bathrooms with his nasty ass.  I’m not taking any chances.” Castiel sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Alright, I understand.”

“Good.”  Dean stood there, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around like he was unsure of what to do next.  “I, uh.  You are, right?  Fine, I mean?”  Dean took a deep breath. 

“I think so.”  Castiel answered slowly, tilting his head and trying to get Dean to look him in the eyes.  The inquiry made his chest feel warm amidst the wild heartbeat that was trying to inch its way up his throat.  Dean stared at him like he didn’t buy it, and there was concern when he noticed Castiel fidgeting with his hands.  Castiel balled them into fists and pressed them into the couch, and Dean let out a short breath and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, okay.  Awesome.”  Dean met Castiel’s stare with a look that somehow read as more affectionate than indignant, which was what he seemed to be going for.  “Night, Cas.” He said, grabbing a folded blanket off the armchair and tossing it at him.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Castiel watched Dean disappear down the hallway, flicking the lights off as he went along until the entire house was dark and silent. 

He leaned back and took a deep breath, finally letting himself gulp in air like he was starving for it.  Sometimes it was better to give in, to let his body shove out all the bad feelings until he was left empty and exhausted. 

God, he was already so exhausted. 

How long since the last time he'd had real rest?  He counted it out in his head.  A few hours last night had been spent trying, room dark and eyes tightly shut, trying desperately to find a quiet place in his mind.  He wasn’t sure if any of it had translated into actual sleep.  Usually, he had to wait until his body was just so worn out that it just couldn’t stay awake anymore.  He must have gotten some, though.  He wasn’t completely losing it, but his body was starting to feel worn and achy, and tonight was worse than the last few combined. 

He took a deep breath and shut his eyes, humming a medley of the songs that spun constantly in his mind.  He finally settled on one, mouthing the words quietly and trying to focus on them, and only them.

The song was fragmented by thoughts of his family, of the loss and the worry and the anger.  And the fear that he had alienated himself from them for good.  He loved his brothers, he loved them even when he hated them, and he didn’t want this.  He didn’t like it.  Running away wasn’t the right answer and he knew it.  He had to explain to Zachariah that whatever he was planning to do would only serve to break apart their family even more.  After Gabriel leaving and Anna’s death, more loss wan't going to be the answer.  He had to make them understand.  He needed to.

“Hey, Cas?” a small voice interrupted him, and he opened his eyes to find Sam standing at the other end of the room staring at him.  His heartbeat dropped to his stomach and he went cold.  “Are you okay?  I heard you from my room.”  Castiel stared at him for a moment, taking a deep shaky, breath to pull himself back from his own head and into the present. 

“I’m fine.  I’m sorry I woke you.”

Sam shrugged and took a tentative step forward.

“You didn’t, I’ve been studying.  Trying to make up for lost time, you know.”  Sam _looked_ lost, and Castiel hated that he found himself sympathizing with him, but he couldn’t help it.  Sam was so young.

“For disturbing you, then,” he continued.  Sam just shook his head.

“Look, I just wanted to apologize.” Sam started, and Castiel held his breath.  “I know it doesn’t mean anything, and I know nothing I say is going to make you feel any better, but I can’t just not say it.  I’m sorry.  I…"  Sam took a deep breath.  "I shouldn’t have been the one to make it out.  It shouldn’t have been me."

Castiel stared at him, and Sam looked at his feet, running a hand through his hair.

"Dean wanted to go back into the house, I swear.  It’s the one thing I remember clearly, because I dream about it, I see it almost every time I close my eyes," Sam explained, his voice going soft, breaking.  "He was going to run back in and try and get them, and I was so… _terrified_ , so afraid of losing him, of being left alone that I begged him not to go.  I begged him and he listened and maybe if I had just let go you might still have your sister and _I’m sorry_.” 

Sam’s voice went ragged at the end, tear tracks burned into his slightly sunken cheeks, and Cas couldn’t feel anger.  He couldn’t feel anything. 

“And Dean, he feels responsible, and I don’t know how you know each other, but it’s not his fault no matter what he says.  I know you blame me, and you should, I just need you to know that.  Because he might not have said it yet, but he will, because that’s what he does.”

“I don’t blame you, Sam.” Castiel said quietly, and he realized with alarming clarity that it was true.  “I never _blamed_ you.”

“ _Why_?” Sam asked, and it came out like a sob.  Castiel could feel a knot welling up in his throat, and when he tried to swallow it tasted like salt, the kind that was burning behind his eyes.

“Did you kill her?” Castiel asked, voice hard.  “Did you do it yourself, wrap your hands around her throat? Set the fire under her feet?”  Castiel grit his teeth together and stood up, Sam shrinking under his gaze.  “Did you _want_ this, Sam?”

“No!  Of course not, no!”

“It was an _accident_ , then?”  Sam gaped at him, mouth half open as he searched for the words.

“I didn’t… of course it was an accident!  I wouldn’t ever –“

“Then I don’t _blame_ you.” 

Sam stared at him.  His eyes were wide, and bloodshot, and frantic.  Castiel breathed slowly, and tried not to think about his sister, and how much he missed her.  He tried not to think of the time he had lost, trapped inside his own head from grief and fear without Anna to pull him back.  How desperately he had prayed, to every deity he knew the name of and some he didn’t, to bring her back.  To make it all a dream. 

He couldn’t think about that now because all he could think was how much he _cared_ about the boy who was standing there apologizing to him for it. 

“Sam, I really don’t.”

In the corner of his eye, Castiel saw a figure move in the hallway, heading back toward the bedrooms.  He'd never even heard a door open. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for alcohol as a coping mechanism

Dean could still hear the low tone of Cas’ voice moving through the house, his brother’s higher and less obscured by the distance.  He tried not to listen, he’d heard too much already.  The two of them needed to talk it out, and he should be pleased as hell that they were doing it. 

He should have known his brother wouldn’t take long in confronting the guy, Sam’s always been more than ready to try and ‘talk it out’.  It was Cas who he was surprised with, even though he realized that he shouldn’t be. The guy had basically blindsided him at every turn since the moment they'd met; helping him out when he had no good goddamn reason to. 

And now this.

The way Cas’ whole body had stiffened at the sight of Sam was enough to let Dean know that the guy was hurting.  His willingness to just let it go was surprising. In the same position, Dean wasn’t sure he could have done the same thing.  Not if he'd lost Sammy.

No way.

Dean twisted the knob gently and pushed his way into his meticulously tidy bedroom.  The room was nearly pitch black, a vague blue light seeping in under his thick curtains only to be eaten by the dark.  He stumbled sleepily to his bed, letting his body go limp once he felt his knees graze the frame.  He was all messed up about today, about the past _year_ , and he didn’t fucking like it. 

He fumbled at his bedside drawer, opening it up and pulling out an amber glass bottle, the liquid inside sloshing noisily in the otherwise dead silence.  Well, a dead silence punctuated occasionally by the now nearly inaudible voices of Sam and Cas down the hall, but Dean was still trying to ignore that.  The bottle in his hand was significantly lighter than he remembered.  Rolling onto his back, he twisted off the cap, bringing the drink to his lips.  The air around the rim was thick and tasted like whiskey, but the drink itself merely burned a hard line down his throat.  He shut his eyes, and focused on the heat that wafted through him in waves to settle in his chest and in his cheeks. 

Dean pushed it all down.  Pushed down the ache he felt hearing Sam bear his goddamn heart to Cas.  Pushed down how much he hated that Sammy had to carry that kind of guilt.  He was angry with his brother for being so stupid and giving away so much to _need_ , but more angry with himself for not stopping it all.  For not even fucking realizing anything was wrong before the roof caved in.  He threw back another shot and pushed down the emptiness of loss.  He pushed down thoughts of Anna.  He couldn’t even picture her face anymore. Just the guilt, the loss.

He should have saved her.  He could have tried. 

He took another shot, the whiskey searing down his throat as he blinked away the moisture in his eyes.  What was his loss, really?   Sammy had lost six months to a chemical, a year to court hearings, rehab, and piecing his body and mind back together, and the rest of his life to feeling like it would never be enough.  Cas had lost his _sister_ , and Dean couldn’t imagine it.  He couldn’t.  It killed him to try.  So he pushed it down.  The whiskey seared through his veins and turned the walls into liquid.  He shut his eyes against it and rode it out. 

Dean was tired.  Too tired to push down memories of Cas’ slender fingers trailing the cushions of their couch, or wrapped around his empty beer bottle, or the small line of skin from the curve of his back to his hipbone that showed when he stretched his arms up languidly like a tabby. Cas' soft mouth, bright blue eyes, focused on Dean like he was the most interesting, perplexing person he'd had ever met.

Dean just dug his fingernails into his palm and threw back the rest of the bottle, a fire burning low in his gut.

\--

Sam made his way to the armchair, his thumb and forefinger pressed against his eyelids.  He could hear Cas moving back to sit on the couch.  He looked worn, like he hadn’t slept in days.  “Thanks, Cas.” He mumbled, feeling it was really inadequate. 

“It’s unnecessary, but you’re welcome.” Cas answered, his voice slightly ragged.  There was no more heat there, just a subtle weariness.

Sam looked up, and Cas was sitting perfectly straight, eyes dark and focused on the wall behind him.  Something had changed in Cas, and the effort of that change had exhausted him.  Sam felt the same way, and for a moment he sat contemplating where to go next now that he had given his apology and accepted, at least in some small quantity, that Cas was not blaming him.  

“Are you okay?” He finally asked, genuinely concerned by the continued silence. 

Cas looked at him, head cocked to the side like he was trying to figure out what Sam meant or how exactly to answer the question.  After a long pause he finally spoke.

“I will be.”  Cas smiled in a conciliatory way and focused on the wall again, Sam taking the hint to change the line of conversation.

“So, Dean.”  Cas’ eyes shifted at the sound of his brother’s name.  “How do you guys know each other?”

“We met a few nights ago, I was out walking near the old bar –“

“You mean Ellen’s place?”  Sam interrupted.  Cas raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose,” Cas answered slowly.  “I’m not familiar with the owner.  They don’t usually let _minors_ into places like that.”  At the word ‘minors’ he smirked, his tone dripping with an easy sarcasm, and Sam couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“Heh, yeah I guess not.  Never stopped Dean.”  Sam continued, leaning back against the soft cushions of the chair and letting the tension leak from his muscles.

“He goes there a lot, I assume?” Cas asked quietly, serious again.

“Yeah, well…” Sam started, taking a slow breath before he continued.  “He used to, back before I screwed it all up.  But not for the reasons you think.  Ellen and Jo are like family to us, knew 'me before we moved here.  I don’t know for sure what he’s been like for the past few months, but after the accident he kind of just… stopped.  Even after I was at the Center, whenever we talked on the phone, he never mentioned anything about going anywhere or being around anyone else.  To be honest I’m more worried now that he _doesn’t_ hang out at a bar every night.” Cas sat in quiet contemplation, his eyebrows knitted together. “Dean won’t admit it, but he doesn’t do too well on his own.”  Sam finished.

“What about you?”  Cas asked after a moment.

“What _about_ me?”  Sam answered, confused.

“You’ve been on your own for months.”  Cas explained, taking a concentrated effort to meet Sam’s eyes.  Was Cas asking about his mental state? 

Sam felt the distinct pang of guilt in his chest. Cas’ continued acceptance and concern for him was as startling as it was undeserved, especially when only minutes ago he had been literally breathing down Sam’s neck about the dynamics of culpability and generally scaring the shit out of him.  Cas didn’t seem to do anything halfway, his anger as potent as his empathy, even if he did attempt and hide it beneath a guise of calm.  Cas moved like someone struggling to police every twitch of his muscles.

“I’m not going to lie and say I liked it, but sometimes I didn’t really mind it.”  Sam shrugged.  “Still.  Everyone needs someone, Cas.”  Cas’ eyes noticeably softened at that, nodding absently like he was still rolling the concept around in his head.  “You were telling me how you met?”  Sam offered.

“Yes.  Dean came out of the bar drunk, and I saw a group of men watching him.  I was concerned,” Cas explained, a brief flash of anger in his eyes.

“A group of guys outside The Roadhouse?  Was it Crowley?” Sam asked, and Cas frowned.

“How did you know?”

“They’re always out there loitering and heckling Jo.  Luckily she can handle herself, once he ended up with a decently sized gash in his shoulder and a butterfly knife at his throat.  Didn’t try much after that.”  Sam bit his lip, and spoke more quietly.  “And uh, he sold… to Ruby and once to me.”  That seemed to strike a hard note with Cas.

“He sold to you?” Cas asked, his voice tight.  Sam nodded.  Cas seemed more surprised than he should at the mention of Sam’s history. “What exactly did he sell, Sam?” Cas asked impatiently, his eyes going wide.  Sam stared at him, trying to work out why he had to ask.  “Heroin?”  Sam nodded again, hesitantly.  Of course it was heroin.  Cas closed his eyes and exhaled, his hands slowly curling into fists.

“I thought you knew about my case.  Your brother was involved.”  Sam said, confused and suddenly on the defense.  Cas opened his eyes and stared at him incredulously.

“I knew there were drugs involved, but I never thought…. I was a little _indisposed_.”  Cas explained, frustrated.  Sam stared at him.  Something was wrong.  “That’s a very dangerous drug, Sam.”  Cas continued more softly. There was concern in his expression, and something else.  Something like fear.  It didn’t make sense.

“I know,” Sam breathed. “Cas, are you okay?”

“What?  Yes,” Cas said, unclenching his hands.  “I’m fine.”  Sam frowned at him, but didn’t push it. 

He was used to this, Dean and his father were old veterans of the denial shtick.  At least Cas didn’t berate him about ‘chick flick moments’ like his brother did.  It’s not like Dean never talked to him, but pushing an issue never worked.  Had to let Dean think it was his idea or he shut off, resorting to sarcasm or changing the subject altogether.  It was either Dean’s terms or none at all. 

“So you rescued my brother from a drug dealer?” Sam smiled a little, trying to lighten the mood.

“I just walked him home,” Cas answered, shrugging his shoulders.

“And Crowley?” Sam asked. Cas looked up, a flat out cocky expression on his face.  “Hmm.”  Sam pressed his lips together. He had to admit that it was more than a little pleasing to think about Cas bearing down on an arrogant dick like Crowley. 

Sam smiled, and Cas returned it.  It wasn’t a smug smile, or a one meant to pacify, misdirect, or even to comfort.  Just a genuine smile between two people who were starting to understand one another.  

“I need sleep” Sam said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.  When he pulled his hand away he noticed, not for the first time, the dark circles under Cas’ eyes.  “And I think you do too…”  Cas nodded at him while Sam stood up, taking a tentative step toward the couch.  “I uh, appreciate it.  Everything, I mean.”

“I know.”  Castiel responded kindly.  “Goodnight, Sam.” 

“Night, Cas.”

\--

Castiel didn’t really sleep. 

He was so completely worn, to the point where he couldn’t even keep a steady string of thought or line of a song in his head.  He didn’t feel anxious, not the physical kind of anxiety anyway.  That came and went, like anything else.  But there was always something there.   Something that kept him awake, dizzy spikes of adrenaline, even when his body ached for rest.  It wasn’t usually frantic or dramatic, just little thoughts, little feelings demanding his attention.  He lay on the Winchester’s couch, going over the last night’s conversation in his head in tiny pieces between his less lucid moments until the pale blue morning light split through the curtain. 

He frowned and pushed himself up, bringing his trembling fingers up to his face.  He had to go home.  Raphael would be waking up soon, if he was even home at all.  Zachariah might already be awake and waiting. 

He groaned and turned so his feet were flat on the floor, feeling out the rough carpet between his toes.  He should have set an alarm.  Castiel reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out his cell.  It was a simple, old flip phone. Raphael had gotten it for him after he started leaving the house more frequently and at odd hours.  At first he had thought it was out of concern, but he wasn’t so sure anymore.  Raphael just needed a way to feel he still had some semblance of control.  He opened it and grimaced as the screen lit up. 

No new messages.  At least there was that. 

Castiel collected his things quietly, slipped on his shoes, and pulled on his rumpled white button up shirt that he left hanging open over a thin gray tee.

The air was chill when he stepped out of the house, but it kept him alert and awake and so he kept his jacket rolled up in his school bag.  Castiel couldn’t lock the deadbolt and he hoped the secondary lock on the door handle would be enough until Sam or Dean woke up.  Slowly, he made his way back through to the main road, crossing over in the opposite direction toward his own home.  The nervous energy built up as he got closer, but he reined it in.  They couldn’t know where he’d been.  Everything else he could handle.

When Castiel was finally standing at his front door, he froze. 

His fingertips were numb with cold, and he mindlessly pressed his thumbnail against the pliant skin of each of them in turn.  He sucked in the air, and it didn’t feel like enough.  It was thin, and dry, an insubstantial press against his lungs.  He stood there long enough that he started to drift, the feeling of his forehead pressed against the chilled wood of the doorway finally bringing him back to reality.  He wouldn’t make it through the school day if he could barely stand upright on his own.  He pushed his way into the house, warmth wrapping him up like blanket before it turned into a stranglehold, his limbs aching to fold in toward his body in an effort to escape it. 

It had been a long time since he had enjoyed coming home, the smell of it setting off warning bells in his mind. 

He straightened his back and walked through the entryway into the living room, taking a wistful glance at the stairs before he decided his bedroom was too much a temptation before he’d had any caffeine.

“Long night, Castiel?” Zachariah purred, a threat in his tone that made a shiver run up Castiel’s spine.  He turned to find his brother seated on the most ornate armchair in the room, his chin resting on his hands.

“No longer than most.” He answered, refusing to meet his older brother’s eyes.

“How did you get home?  Did you walk?”  Zachariah asked lightheartedly, the hint of a smirk playing at the edges of his thin lips.

“Is that really the question you want to ask me?” Castiel snapped.  He was too exhausted to play along with Zachariah’s games.

“Alright then, we’ll start with the most obvious one, _little_ brother.  What the hell did you think you were doing?” The light posturing in Zachariah’s expression was gone, replace by a cold, seething anger.  Castiel knew he should be worried, but he found it more amusing than intimidating.  Maybe that was just the fatigue.

“What were _you_ doing?  Attacking a student on school grounds?  Uriel could have been arrested for assault. Suspended from school at the very, very least.  This isn’t how you fix things, Zachariah,” Castiel countered.  His brother stared at him, his frown deepening as the seconds passed.  “What was your goal?  What’s the end game here?”

“To get that filth thrown into juvenile hall where he belongs.  You seem to forget what he did, Castiel.  Do you need a reminder?”  Zachariah was bearing down on him so quickly it made his head spin, one moment he was on the other side of the room and the next he was less than a foot away, shoving a worn stack of newspaper clippings into his hand.  Castiel was shaking, but he didn’t back down, grinding his teeth as he glared at his brother.  He didn’t need to look at the clippings in his hand.  He knew very well what they were.  “Burned alive,” Zachariah said, emphasizing every syllable for clarity as if Castiel were a toddler.

“I know,” Castiel whispered as he gently set the papers down, refusing to even look at them.  He wanted to explain to Zachariah that Sam hadn’t meant it, that he was a good person with a good heart, one that had suffered for his mistakes, and was still suffering. 

Vengeance wasn’t necessary. 

Unfortunately, Castiel knew that wasn’t what Zachariah cared about.  His brother liked to pull out articles on Anna’s death or photographs and pretend like he was just as broken up about it as Castiel, but he wasn’t.  “What you did won’t get you back in Raphael’s good graces, Zachariah,” he told him truthfully.  It was the only thing his brother was likely to listen to.

“Do you have a proposal?” Zachariah asked him, his body relaxing a little, despite the continued effort to appear menacing.  Castiel knew his brother was thinking over what he was saying, even if he would never admit to actually being wrong.  Not unless it served him in some way to do so.  Castiel shrugged, his eyelids drooping against his best efforts to remain alert.

“You don’t have to get S- the boy locked away again to gain back Raphael’s trust.  I suggest focusing on your involvement in the business, show him you’re capable.”  Castiel knew it was a weak answer, but he was so tired that his vision was starting to blur.  Zachariah frowned, but offered no rebuttal.  Castiel swayed a little on his feet and tried to focus on the pain in his thawing fingertips, something physical to hold onto.  Zachariah was quiet for long enough that Castiel started to back away into the kitchen, eager for something that would make his body feel like more than dead weight against his bones. 

It was only when he began to turn that he heard Zachariah take a breath and speak.

“His brother, Dean was it?  He recognized you,” Zachariah said, his voice soft with a new kind of threat.

“We’d met once before, I had no idea they were related.”  Castiel said, his mouth going dry.

“You know he’s the one, right?” Castiel’s heart started thumping hard in his chest and he just wanted to turn around and punch Zachariah in the jaw to keep him from saying another word.  “The one Anna was always sneaking off to see, the one she ran to.  I’m sure that’s what she was doing there that night, getting herself _fucked_ by Dean Winchester.”  Castiel’s skin crawled.  He wasn’t playing this game.  Zachariah was trying to get something out of him, but it wasn’t going to work.  He turned back around and in two strides he was bearing down on his brother, and it was clear Zachariah realized the line he’d just crossed.

“Don’t talk about Anna that way.”  He growled.  _Like she’s a_ thing _to be used against me_.  Castiel was so close to his brother that he could almost taste his thickly scented cologne.  It made him want to throw up.  His hands itched to grab Zachariah by his high collared dress shirt, but instead he shoved his way past him toward the stairs, aching for the sanctity of his bedroom.

He hated him.  He hated Zachariah, and he hated how it wasn’t just the insult to Anna that was twisting him up inside.  It was something else, something he was ashamed of.  Something that tugged in his chest alongside the anger and the grief and the gnawing inevitability of panic.  He told himself that it didn’t matter if it were true, it didn’t change anything.  In fact, he had known.  Some part of him had pushed it away, because he liked Dean.  Way too much, and way too fast.  So much so that it should scare him.  He had pushed it away, but he knew Dean had been with Anna, and it shouldn’t hurt, but it did. 

Castiel shut his bedroom door behind him and buried his fingers in his hair, his eyes darting around his room as his heartbeat inched his way up his throat.  There were crucifixes on the walls, pages framed from the Koran, at least three different statues of the Buddha on his desk alone.  There was a rosary around the neck of one of them, and before he realized what he was doing he found his fingers touching it gently, like a precious thing.  He took a deep breath, and he willed himself to let it go.

“ _Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands.”_ Castiel sang quietly, feeling the anger and the panic ebbing away.  “ _As he walks from the grave, no one was saved._ ”

His fingers grasped for a small brass handle on the top drawer of his desk, opening it to find a collection of tiny statues, idols of Ganesh and Vishnu, Anansi and Amun.  He didn’t want those right now, but he dragged his fingers along the tops of them reverently as he searched for the one he needed.  The small plastic figurine of Loki was pressed against another small Buddha, the paint chipped off the top from Castiel rubbing at it with his thumb.  He smiled warmly as he wrapped his fingers around it, shutting the drawer again and moving toward his bed.

“ _All the lonely people, where do they all come from?”_

\--

Dean nearly broke his phone, arm poised to fling it across the room before his brain caught up with what was happening.  He reigned himself in and shut off the alarm with a clumsy flick of his thumb, dropping it to the floor with a soft thud.  His hand dangled off the side of the bed, limp and useless from the effort.  He was still on the fringes of drunkenness, thoughts sticky and slow, bones feeling like they’d been replaced with lead.  He wondered how long he could keep riding it out.

Any other day he’d ignore the alarm, bury his head under the pillow, and tune out the world for a few more hours until he couldn’t force sleep any longer.  Any other day, but not today.  Sam could always run and catch the bus, but after the shit that went down the day before Dean wasn’t taking any fucking chances. 

It was his job to take care of his brother. 

After a few more minutes of staring up at the ceiling he chanced a move, his head swimming as he pushed himself up against the headboard.   He pinched the brow of his nose when a dull throb shot from the back of his neck to right behind his eyes.  Water.  He needed water.

Dean stumbled his way into the hall bathroom, gulping down a full glass of tap water in one go merely to dip it under the stream and fill it to the brim again.  He drank the second glass more slowly, reaching over to turn on the light only once he thought he could handle it. 

Dean wondered idly if Cas was still in the living room, if he’d slept alright.  He should have offered him something more comfortable to sleep in besides his undershirt and dress pants.  Who the fuck wears church pants to school anyway? 

Thoughts of Cas’ long limbs draped over the edges of the couch rushed him, dark slacks bunched up around his knees, undershirt riding up against the cushions.  He imagined Cas’ lips barely parted, hair even more mussed than it usually was.  The fantasies were sending a spark of heat down between his legs.  He was already half hard when he woke up and now the feeling was rushing him.  Dean rolled his hips against the cabinets and gripped the edge of the counter in a half-hearted attempt to counteract it.  He was not fucking _lusting_ over Cas.  And he sure as hell wasn’t going to jerk off to the thought of those baby blues while Cas was asleep on his fucking couch. 

Wow, he really shouldn’t even be considering it. 

He rolled his hips again and bit back a groan.

_Shit._

Yeah, no okay this was not happening.  Dean pushed himself away from the counter and threaded his fingers through his hair, tugging a little harder than he probably should.

“Dean, you in there?”   Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.

“Yes.”  He answered, his voice scratchy.

“Do you know where Cas went?”  It was a small drop, from his chest to his gut, but Dean was very acutely aware of it.

“He’s gone?”  Dean asked, pressing his back against the wall, feeling a dead weight settle on his shoulders.

“The deadbolt’s unlocked and all his stuff is gone so I’m thinking, yeah.”

“Okay.”  Dean took a breath.  Okay.  Alright, Cas was gone.  Probably got up early and walked home.  There was a small part of him that was worried, but Cas seemed like he could handle himself.  Could have at least left a damn note. 

“Hope he’s alright,” he heard Sam say, more to himself than to Dean.

“Dude’s fine, don’t worry so much.”  Yeah, right.  He should take his own advice for once.  Before he knew what he was doing he was sitting on the floor, running circles against his eyes with his thumbs. 

“Dean, you gunna stay in there forever?  I need a shower,” Sam finally said, half joking and half irritated.

“Screw you.  I’ve got dibs.”  Dean shouted back, pushing himself up toward the bathtub and turning the knob.  The water was freezing as it spotted against his forearm, and he grit his teeth together.  He stayed there on the floor until the steady stream of water began to warm, pulling away to peel off his t-shirt and boxers.  At least he wasn’t hard anymore. 

It’s really the small things in life. 

Sam came and pounded on the door three times before Dean stepped out, meticulously clean and feeling a hell of a lot better than before.  Once Sam was ready they left for the school, and Dean found himself wondering if he’d run into Cas when he got there.

He found himself looking over his shoulder all day, but there wasn’t any sign of Cas.  Not in the halls or the cafeteria.  None of the corners of the school students usually gravitated towards in pods to escape the larger crowds.  He even found himself peeking into classrooms, realizing he knew basically nothing about the guy.  Not the classes he took, or the people he hung out with, or even what grade he was in.  Shit, how old _was_ Cas?  That thought should not freak him out half as much as it did.  Dean kept telling himself not to think about him but it just made him think more, and he started to consider the possibility that maybe he’d been isolated for too damn long and it was making him crazy.  Or, at the very least, prone to hardcore tunnel vision.

The only good thing about the day was that nothing happened, Sam was fine and there was basically no sign of Cas’ douchebag brothers.  Later that day he buried himself in the engine of a shitty old 97 Ford Taurus the color of dried vomit, his hands working deftly while Bobby blasted ZZ Top from the busted up old radio shoved into the hollowed out metal carcass of an 87 GT.  He worked until the sun was low in the sky and his sweat was beginning to freeze against his skin.

Dean spent the entire weekend in a state of limbo, dragging himself between Bobby’s garage and sinking into the couch next to his brother.  They eventually ran out to pick up some real food, Sam making a b-line for the produce section and coming back with armfuls of fresh fruits and veggies.  Food for the birds, in his opinion.  He told Sam as much.  Dean restocked his own supply of frozen dinners, boxed pasta, and canned soups.  They were cheap and easy to make, and it was what he was used to. 

Later he would sneak out to a liquor store and bribe some guy to go in and get him a fresh bottle of whiskey and a six pack. 

Monday eventually came around and he made his way through the hallways mindlessly until he recognized a familiar shock of dark hair, only barely containing the impulse to shout.  Dean shoved his way through a sea of students to make his way toward Cas, who only noticed him once he was less than three feet away.  The guy looked like absolute shit, and Dean thought that might be putting it kindly.

“Shit, Cas.” 

“I know.” Cas said, voice like sandpaper. The last time he'd seen Cas, he'd been trussed up like he was going to a job interview, now he was dressed in a simple black tee that draped over his frame like it was made for someone twice as large, his tan jacket wrinkled with his sleeves pushed up haplessly over his elbows.  He still had the dress pants on but Dean was pretty sure he'd forgotten the belt because they sat low on his hips.  Even if he were dressed to the nines Dean would still be worried because he was pale as a sheet, eyes dark and hollow.

“The hell happened, man?” Dean asked, gripping Cas’ shoulder and pushing him in the direction of the senior courtyard.  Fuck class.  The state Cas was in he wasn’t sure it was even possible for him to stay conscious much less concentrate.  Cas didn’t protest.  That kind of worried Dean more. 

Once they were outside, Cas pressed his fingers against his eyes and sighed, and Dean wanted to tell him to sit the hell down, but Cas started speaking first.

“I just… haven’t been sleeping very well.”  That had to be the understatement of the goddamn century.

“You went home, right?  Did something happen with your brothers?” Cas lowered his hand and glared at Dean, and Dean was just happy he had enough energy the be annoyed.

“Nothing happened I… tried to talk to Zachariah and I think maybe I convinced him to back off for a while.  I don’t know.”  Cas looked pissed at the effort it took to get the words out.  He opened his mouth as if to continue, but his eyes started to drift shut and his body slumped.  Dean shoved his arms out to grip at Cas’ shoulders before he plummeted, repositioning himself to cradle Cas’ arm to his chest as he took on the brunt of his weight.

“I’m taking you home.”

“No,” Cas said, and it came out more like a plea than a demand.

“Dude, you’re wrecked.  You can’t stay here.”

“I’m not going home, Dean,” he said, the heat back in his voice.  Dean bit the inside of his cheek to help push down the frustration.

“I’ll take you back to my place, okay?  Just fucking… just trust me.”  Cas sighed and Dean felt his body go pliant against him, Cas’ hair brushing up against the underside of his chin.  Dean bit his lip. 

“Fine,” Cas finally said, and Dean let out a breath of relief and walked him around to the Impala. 

“Congrats, you get shotgun today,” Dean said, opening the passenger door and smirking as Cas rolled his eyes and slumped in.  Cas settled against the seat and shut his eyes, his brow furrowed, and Dean had a fleeting urge to reach out and press his finger between Cas’ dark eyebrows to smooth out the lines.  Instead he pulled out his cell and sent Sam a text telling him to catch the bus home.

Dean kept the music soft, shooting glances at Cas every few seconds the entire drive home.  He was playing the same Zeppelin cassette as the last time Cas had been in the car, and he was surprised to see Cas mouthing the lyrics to "Stairway to Heaven" when it started playing.  He turned the volume up a bit and Cas smiled around the words, eyes still closed.   When Dean finally pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine, he turned to Cas, his fingers twitching against the impulse to reach out to him.

“Cas, you awake?” He asked.

“Mhmm,” Cas hummed.

“Think you can make it inside, sleeping beauty?”

“Hmm.  I could have left you passed out in that alley, you know.  You should show me some respect,” Cas grinned, voice low in a way that made Dean lightheaded.

“Yeah, alright. Come on.”  Dean tried to help him out of the car but Cas swatted away his hands, pushing himself up on his own two shaky legs. 

Obstinate. 

Once they were inside he headed for the couch, but Dean grabbed his shoulders and veered him in the direction of his own bedroom.  Cas looked at him confusedly when they stepped inside, and his insides coiled up.  “Sleep here, it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than that ratty old couch.”  Cas stared at him, one of those penetrating stares like he was trying to read his thoughts, and Dean realized how little space was between them.  He backed up.

“If you’re sure,” Cas said, curious eyes dropping to Dean’s feet as he took another step toward the door.

“Yeah, man.  Take all the time you need.” 

Dean watched as Cas curled up on the bed, tucking his knees up to his chest.  He heard Cas start to hum quietly to himself as he shut the door. 

_Sleep well, Cas._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for grieving, verbal abuse regarding mental illness, blood, and severe anxiety

Dean didn't taste the way Castiel imagined he would.  He was heady like whiskey, sharp like cinnamon, and Castiel hadn’t even realized he’d been expecting _anything_ , and now he couldn't imagine how it could have been anything else. 

Dean breathed air into his lungs, taking his bottom lip between his own like it belonged to him, tasting Castiel the same way Castiel was tasting him.  Castiel devoured him, that supple mouth, desperate for more, but he didn't know how to just _take what he wanted,_ and it’s worse because Dean was so soft, and pliant, and willing. 

 _Move your hands_ , Castiel thought.  _Let him know._

Dean groaned into his mouth as if he could taste Castiel’s hesitation.  He went in, fingers tracing invisible lines on the edge of Dean’s jaw to the nape of his neck, a racing heartbeat against his thumbs that echoed his own.  He'd never wanted like this before, and he thrust his hips forward, finding Dean hard, and willing, and eager.  They moved like they were made for each other.  Edges slotting together like matching pieces of a puzzle. 

“Cas,” he breathed, and it was so simple, so pleading that Castiel gripped his shirt and pulled him closer, their foreheads pressing together as their mouths parted. Their lips grazed, spit slick and warm from heavy breathing, in time to the persistent rutting of their hips against one another. 

Castiel felt Dean’s hands warm at the base of his spine, tracing a line of skin right above his belt, and he whimpered. 

 _More.  I need more, Dean._  

At the same time Dean’s gentle fingers breached the line of his waistband, Castiel dragged his short nails down Dean’s biceps, muscles twitching beneath the weight of his touch.   He didn't realize he’d been staring until Dean looked back, green eyes blown almost black with want.  Neither of them tried to look away, Dean’s hands cupping his ass, easing him forward, letting him know with a kiss to the edge of his swollen lips that it was okay to want, to need, to  _feel_. 

Castiel buried his face in the curve of Dean’s neck, taking the skin between his teeth, biting and then soothing the flesh with the slow drag of his tongue in turn.  He wanted to taste him, mark him up, _keep him_.  Their chests pressed together, Castiel’s arms shoved up under Dean’s shirt, fingers gripping at his shoulder blades while he thrust his hips harder and harder, Dean coaxing him on with sighs and groans and his name on his lips.

“Cas.”

 _Fuck, Dean.  Please.  Keep saying my name.  Just like that._ Castiel’s lips ghosted against Dean’s collarbone, and he felt the weight of a kiss pressed just under his ear into his hair, the spot that was always sore from all his pulling, but somehow wasn't anymore, and he gasped back air because he was so close, and he'd never felt this way.  He was going to shatter, going to fall to pieces, and Dean’s was going to have to pick him up and put him back together, but he didn't _care_.

“Dean.” He rasped out, needy and begging, hands gripping at sweat drenched sheets as he forced his hips forward into open air.

It took him a moment to come back down, to ease the shock of waking up alone in Dean’s bed.  He could still feel the ghost of lips pressed against his own, and he wanted desperately to bring his fingertips up to rest against his mouth.  They wouldn’t be swollen or tender like they should be, because it hadn’t been real, and so he didn't, instead choosing to bury his fingers further into the sheets.  He let the images from the dream slip away into fog, the aching pulse of his erection uncomfortable against his strained pants.  He ignored it, groaning softly as he buried his head under a pillow. 

He kind of wished he’d just had a nightmare.

Castiel lay there alone in Dean's bed until the heat faded away.  He didn’t do this.  He didn’t crave this kind of thing, no one had ever given him a good reason to, but Dean just kept being there, stubborn as anything, and touching him and holding him up and just _caring_ like it’s what he was made for. How was he supposed to keep himself from wanting that? 

Castiel sighed and finally stopped attempting to tear Dean’s sheets apart with his bare hands, pushing himself up and glancing at light peeking through the curtains.  He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but if it was still light outside it was a good sign. 

He closed his eyes, the day coming back to him in bursts.  He had barely made it through the first half of the school day before Dean had been there to help him.  He had known going to school that way had been a bad idea, but he couldn’t stay in his house anymore.  Castiel had been fighting a battle with Zachariah all weekend, trying to maintain his neutrality toward the Winchesters while attempting to force Zachariah’s motivations elsewhere. 

Uriel hadn’t even spoken to him since the incident at the school, and that was worse somehow.  Uriel was the only person in his family that Castiel still felt like he had some shadow of a relationship with, which was a testament to how strained things where with both Zachariah and Raphael.  Even that connection was lost to him now.  Maybe it had been for a long time.  Once united in their grief over the loss of their sister, Uriel was now so encompassed with his desire to inflict pain that Castiel wondered at what point it stopped being about trying to counteract his own hurt and frustration, and instead just became something he enjoyed.

There was something broken in them, and he wondered how he could ever consider himself any better.

Castiel walked down the hall, one thumb through the belt loop on his slacks to keep them from falling too low on his hips.  When he made it to the living room, he saw Dean leaning back against the couch cushions, his feet propped up on the coffee table, one hand buried in his hair, and the other curled around a half empty bottle of beer.  Dean’s eyes were glued to the television, a vacant look like he was somewhere else, and Castiel wanted to bring him back. 

Before he could open his mouth to speak, Dean seemed to shake himself out, turning to look at him.  Green eyes trained to what Castiel realized were his exposed hipbones.  Dean smirked and cocked his eyebrow, and Castiel tugged the shirt down, frowning as heat rose in his cheeks.

“The hell are you doing up?”  Dean asked, scooting over to make a spot for Castiel on the couch.

“What do you mean?” Castiel answered, slotting into the space, Dean’s knee brushing his own.

“I mean you looked like you hadn’t slept in days and it’s only been a couple damn hours.  Sam’s not even home from school yet.”

“Shit,” he breathed. Dean barked out a laugh, and it was Castiel’s turn to raise an eyebrow.  “What’s so funny?”

“I just didn’t know you could curse, man,” Dean answered with a shrug. 

Dean didn’t force conversation, but when they did speak it felt easy.  They weren’t demanding of one another, and Castiel added that to the list of things he liked about Dean Winchester.  Castiel might have dozed off once in the middle of a particularly formulaic episode of Gilligan’s Island.  He might have also pretended to be asleep a little longer when he felt Dean gently pulling his face out from between two suffocating cushions, and easing him onto his shoulder instead. 

Castiel felt relaxed, more so than he had in a long time.  Even if he couldn’t push everything away, every little worrying thought, and let his mind rest.  This felt like a good enough alternative.

Eventually Sam came home, and the gap between the two of them widened.  It was comfortable with Sam as well, he found; a different kind of comfort.  The three of them fit easily together, Sam and Dean bickering over the next show to put on while Castiel watched in mild bemusement. 

“What, are you forty?  There are channels other than TV Land,” said Sam, a petulant expression as he grabbed for the remote.

“Alright Sam, how about you go make us all some fruit salad and we’ll put on ‘16 and Pregnant’,” Dean countered.

“I wouldn’t mind some fruit salad,” Castiel said, completely serious, while looking back and forth between Sam and Dean’s frustrated faces.  Dean rolled his eyes so dramatically that Castiel was momentarily concerned they might retreat into his skull.

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean shot back even as he stood up and walked into the kitchen.  He came back twenty minutes later with three bowls of pasta and a steaming mug that he thrust into Castiel’s hands, refusing to meet his eyes.  “You were muttering about coffee earlier,” he offered as explanation.  “Don’t bitch, we’ve only got the instant stuff.”  Castiel stared at him, and down at the dark, muddy drink in his hands, and back up again.  Dean pursed his lips together and frowned as a light blush crept up his cheeks, just begging Castiel to challenge him.

It was horrid.  It was the foulest coffee that Castiel had ever tasted.  Dean had put milk in it in lieu of creamer, and not even enough of it at that, and it was simultaneously too dark and too watery, the flavor flat and the texture gritty.  It filled him with warmth, though, as he gulped it down, gripping his fingers tight around smooth, hot surface, and he realized he loved it.  “Thank you, Dean,” he said, meaning it.

Dean nodded and fell back into place beside him, shoveling pasta into his mouth like if he didn’t eat it fast enough it was going to crawl away.  Castiel just smiled, feeling right in all the ways he shouldn’t, and for once not caring.

\--

Things at school were getting easier.  Sam still hadn’t made any real friends besides Cas, but he didn’t mind much.  Ever since Dean had driven Cas to their house a couple weeks ago, worn out from sleep deprivation, Cas had become a somewhat recurring fixture in their home.  He rarely left school with them, which Sam assumed had to do with maintaining appearances for his brothers, but he would just show up, sometimes soon after school had ended, or hours later looking exhausted, but happy for the escape. 

Everything about Cas’ family dynamic scared Sam. 

Sam knew about control, his own father maintaining a militant stranglehold on both Sam and Dean since before he could remember. Since their mother had been killed, taking a part of John Winchester with her.  It wasn’t as prevalent as it had been in their childhood, John’s influence waning with his absence, but he still had power over them, over Dean.  There was a type of blind obedience forced from relationships like that, a kneejerk reaction to straighten up and shut down, all of which seemed to ring true to Cas’ actions regarding his brothers.  At least Sam and Dean were offered some manner of reprieve, the only good thing that came from being essentially abandoned.  Cas, though, had to navigate under the thumb of his family every single day. 

Over the weeks, Sam realized that Cas was filling in spaces neither he nor Dean had accounted for.  Things between Sam and Dean had been strained for a long time, so long that they had stopped questioning it, but with Cas around things were different.  They were better.  Dean relaxed around Cas, his banter less forced, the silences less pointed.  Some nights Dean and Sam would end up asleep on or against the couch, having stayed up late trying to educate Cas on the finer points in cinema history. 

Cas must have lived an incredibly sheltered life.  He’d never seen _Star Wars_ , which was a _fucking travesty_ in Dean’s eyes.  He’d never seen _Forrest Gump_ , or _Jurassic Park_ , or _Back to the Future_ , or any of the films that had more or less defined Sam and Dean’s distinctly nontraditional childhood.  When they’d sat him down last weekend to watch all three Indiana Jones films (only three, because Dean refused to acknowledge the existence of a fourth movie), Dean and Cas had gotten into a heated argument over Willie Scott, Cas complaining about her distinct lack of any redeeming characteristics and constant wailing that was, quite frankly, an insult to women everywhere, while Dean maintained that it didn’t fucking matter because Willie Scott was ‘hot as hell’.  At least they could both agree that Short Round was hilarious, and that overall _Temple of Doom_ was the weakest of the trilogy.

Sam had to admit that mornings were always a bit of a sore spot.  Dean couldn’t seem to get used to Cas being gone, especially the times he woke up sprawled out on the couch, his feet kicked into the empty space next to him that was still warm from where Cas had been curled up, trying his hardest to sleep but usually just ending up quietly watching over them both.

Some days Cas was so worn from lack of substantial sleep that that he barely spoke, and some nights Sam would catch him staring blankly at the television, his fingers twisted in his hair.  It worried Sam, and it definitely worried Dean, but they had gotten the impression that it was just something he had to deal with.  They all had their demons; Cas’ just wore on him more physically than Sam or Dean’s.

Sam's own demons where creeping up on him now, holding him in his seat, eyes watching Jess move across the other end of the cafeteria to sit with her friends.  He had talked to her a few times, but only when he was helping her with classwork and only when she approached him first.  After she had stopped Steve from bullying him his first day back at school, he had been completely infatuated with her.  The way she moved, the way she laughed.  She had trouble with physics, and all math-related subjects according to her, but he could tell she was smart.  He barely knew anything else about her, and he was eager to find out more, but he stopped himself.  

He knew he didn’t deserve her.  His past was too messy, too dark, and he was heavy with baggage, his addiction still fighting to breach the line of his self-control.  He couldn’t be any sort of anything to her, and it was better not to even let it begin.

That night was the first night in over a week that Cas didn’t show up, and Sam watched as Dean paced back and forth around the house, checking his cell phone every few minutes.

“Maybe he’s passed out.  He looked pretty worn out last night, and it’s not like he lives here or anything,” Sam offered, a small shrug of his shoulders.

“Think I don’t know that?”  Dean snapped, shutting his phone and shoving it back in his pocket for what seemed like the thousandth time that night.  Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes, and Sam frowned at his brother.  “He won’t answer my texts.  It’s not like him,” Dean said, more quietly.

“It’s totally like him,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.  He didn’t think Cas had ever responded to a single one of his text messages.

“Yeah, maybe to you,” Dean scoffed, a small smile on his lips even as he cupped his hand over the cell phone shaped lump in his pocket.  “Whatever, I’m going to bed.”  Sam nodded, and Dean padded down the hallway, phone already open in his palm, lighting the way.

When Cas didn’t show up for school the next day, Sam really started to worry.

\--

It had been exactly one year since Anna’s death, but that wasn’t what set it off. 

Castiel was determined to treat the day like any other, maybe taking an extra moment that morning to tuck a small silver chain under the collar of his shirt, the cold metal of the St. Jude pendant a familiar weight against his chest. Something she'd given him. 

He hadn’t expected his family to remember, or to even care if they had, but that evening when he made his way toward the front door in hopes of escaping to Sam and Dean’s for the night, he heard his eldest brother’s voice call out to him.  He froze on the spot.  Zachariah, Uriel, and Raphael were there in the dining room next to the main foyer, sitting at the table, waiting for him.

Raphael’s presence was like a lead weight on his chest.  He was often around but never present, and seeing him sitting at the dining room table like it was a commonplace thing was unnerving.  Zachariah smiled at him, a sickly sweet gesture that was offset by his cold, expressionless eyes.  Raphael looked toward an empty seat, a plate of food set out in front of it, and Castiel’s heart plummeted to his stomach.

They ate in near silence, until Zachariah finally spoke up, eyeing Raphael warily for what was probably permission.  Raphael nodded, bringing his fingers up to touch his lips.

“You know what day it is today, don’t you Castiel?” Zachariah asked, a knowing smirk spreading across his face.

“Of course,” Castiel answered, staring intently at his plate.

“Good, I was worried you’d forgotten all about your family.”  Zachariah frowned.  “You’ve been gone so much recently.”

Castiel took a breath, moving his hands under the table where he could grip the soft fabric of his slacks.  _They can’t know_ , he told himself.  They could, though.  He had been gone more and more frequently, and maybe one of his brothers had seen him in the hall with Dean.  Or they might have seen the texts in his phone.  He had tried to be careful, but he must have slipped up somewhere.  

He sucked in air slowly and deliberately through parted lips, quietly enough that his brothers might not notice.  Castiel shrugged his shoulders mildly, a habit he had picked up from Sam and Dean.  

“I thought you’d gotten used to me leaving the house,” he replied conversationally.  Zachariah frowned further.

“Yes.  Obviously, for a few hours here and there.  Not for entire evenings.  Where have you been running off to, Cassie?”  Castiel winced at the use of the nickname, a less than gentle reminder of more loss.  Gabriel, the brother he hadn’t seen in years.

“I just walk through town, the atmosphere is calming,” he replied easily.  It had been true once, until he had found a much better escape in the small home of two brothers.  Zachariah sighed, and pushed his plate toward the center of the table, a gesture of resignation.

“It doesn’t matter,” Raphael interjected coolly, and Castiel felt himself straighten up involuntarily.  “You’re expected to be here tonight, with your family.  Tomorrow we are visiting Anna.”  Castiel nodded soberly, biting the inside of his lip until he tasted copper.  This was what families did, they mourned together. 

He felt a soft buzz against his leg, and he placed his hand gently over the pocket that held his cell phone, and his throat felt tight.  He should be here with them.  He should want to be a family.  It was the only thing, until recently, that he’d ever really cared about; keeping his family together despite everything.  He felt the phone buzz again, warmth filling his chest as he imagined Dean’s face, but he pushed it away.  Tonight he would be the good brother, play his part, and tomorrow he would go to the grave and leave flowers on the dying grass, and he would be fine. 

He wasn’t.

The panic swelled as the night continued.  He tried his hardest to push it down, but it stuck in his chest like gum against his ribs.  He kept his back straight and his hands steady until he was allowed to escape into his bedroom, barely shutting the door before he was on his knees, shutting his eyes and tugging his fingers through his hair.   He’d never been to Anna’s grave.  He’d just locked himself away like a coward; receding into his head to escape a harsh reality. 

His pocked buzzed again, and he pulled his phone out with trembling fingers and flipped it open.  He had eleven texts, three from Sam and eight from Dean.  He pulled up the most recent one.  It was one word.

_asshole_

Castiel closed the phone and flung it across the room, pulling his knees to his chest and shutting his eyes, the little bit of warmth he had left draining from him.  He knew he was overreacting, but he was wound so tight that he couldn’t think straight.  What was worse was the only song he could drudge up was "Ride On" by AC/DC because Dean had been trying to convince him to give the band another go, thinking he’d like the softer, more bluesy rhythm.   He didn’t want to think of Dean, and that song wouldn’t help him stop.

He sighed and pushed himself up against the foot of his bed, close to pulling out the hair that curled behind his ears. 

Castiel forced himself to breathe, in through his nose and out through his mouth until his hands stopped clenching on their own accord.

He lay in his bed for the rest of the night, thumb idly tracing the pendant he’d put on earlier as he stared at the wall.  He might have dozed off for one, maybe two hours.  He wasn’t sure.  He could barely read the digital clock sitting on his nightstand anymore.  He had five worry dolls propped up against it, each one no bigger than the pad of his thumb, and he imagined touching them because he couldn’t find the strength to reach out.  When his alarm went off he ignored it, and when Uriel came to the door to tell him they would leave for school without him if he didn’t hurry up, he just said, "Good." 

Castiel stayed like that for hours, his phone buzzing intermittently throughout the day until the battery finally died.  The anxiety was a dull ache in the back of his mind, feeding him what if’s and maybe’s until he couldn’t process anything else.  When he heard his brothers finally come home, he pushed himself stiffly out of his bed and walked to his closet, picking out a black button up and a pair of modest gray slacks.

The cemetery was only a mile out, but they drove, flowers in hand and silence surrounding them.  He was surprised how calm he felt, standing there, staring at polished grey stone with Anna’s name and the date of her death etched into the surface.  It wasn’t until Uriel began to pay his respects that he felt something in him crack, his eyes burning with unshed tears.  Up until that moment, he had been sure he’d moved past this.  He had gotten used to her absence, gotten used to the empty feeling in his chest, gotten used to the silence.  But he hadn’t ‘moved past it’, he’d shoved it down, he’d accepted that somewhere deep inside him was a hole but he’d never faced it. 

_It’s late, Castiel.  Still not sleeping?  Do you want me to sing it again?_ Castiel felt himself nod to a phantom, all the tension he’d been holding in rushing through him in waves, his hands shaking and his heart beating hard in this throat.   _Alright, close your eyes.  This is the last time._   Castiel knew she only meant the last time that night, but he felt his gut twist painfully at the words.  She started slowly, and he felt himself tense as he waited for her soft, clear voice again. 

It was a deep breath before the fall that never came, and he felt himself wrench his jaw open, the words on his own lips, “ _Blackbird singing in the dead of night._ ” He sang under his breath, mouthing the lyrics in the silence.  He wasn’t sure when Uriel had stopped speaking. “ _Take these broken wings and learn to fly.”_ It seemed poignant; to sing her to sleep the way she always had for him.  “ _All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.”_ As his voice grew faintly louder, he heard Zachariah make a frustrated noise, and felt a hand on his shoulder that weighted him down until his knees were buried in the mud.  “ _Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and learn to see,_ ” 

“Castiel,” Raphael said, his voice demanding and forceful above his own.  He tried to block it out, but he felt his back straighten, suddenly acutely aware of his knees sinking into the soft earth beneath him. He just wanted to give her something.  He wasn’t sobbing, or retching, or screaming.  He wasn’t _having an episode,_ he was trying to _grieve_. 

“ _All your life.  You were only waiting for this moment to be free._ ”He needed to deal with this, because he never had.

“Stop this now, you’re embarrassing yourself.” Raphael spoke again, venom in his voice that sent a shiver up Castiel’s spine. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Zachariah, cruelly.  Castiel winced, opening his eyes, willing himself to loosen his grip on the memories of his sister in order to face his brother.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with me,” Castiel bit out beneath his breath, meeting Zachariah’s cold gaze and refusing to pull himself up off the ground. Zachariah laughed bitterly, and Castiel felt bile rise in his throat.

“Castiel, you’re so _cracked_ that it’s a wonder we haven’t had you carted off to an asylum,” Zachariah growled, taking a short breath before his lips quirked up. “Even Anna knew it.”  Castiel shot up in a second, fist pulled back and aimed at his brother’s face, and the only thing that stopped him from following through was Raphael’s cold stare, anger flickering behind his dark eyes.  Castiel pushed his brother away and swung his fist to the base of a large, rough stone statue of an angel, completely unfazed by the pain that shot up his arm at the impact.

“Fuck you.” Castiel rasped before breaking into a run toward the only safe place he could think of.

\--

It’d been a long goddamn day at the garage, but Dean didn’t mind.  It helped keep his thoughts off of Cas.  

He tried to tell himself that everything was okay, but the guy wouldn’t answer his fucking text messages to let him know.  Dean balled up his ruined undershirt and wiped the freezing sweat and grease stains off his arms and face, adding it to a pile of filthy scraps of cloth Bobby kept in the back room because they weren’t ‘wasting no damn rags’.   He pulled on a black shirt and his leather jacket, and tried to keep himself from grabbing for his cell to check for the millionth fucking time if Cas had pulled his head out of his ass and texted him back already.

He checked it once before he climbed into the Impala.  Still nothing.

Dean drove home blaring Motörhead so loud he couldn’t hear himself think.  He forced himself to wail out the lyrics to "Ace of Spades", speeding down the old back roads like he’s Domonic fucking Toretto.  He was so wrapped up in trying to keep himself preoccupied that he almost doesn’t see the figure curled up on his front porch.

_Cas._

The door was open and Dean’s feet hit the ground before the car was even at a complete standstill, reaching in to pull the emergency break only as an afterthought before barreling towards his front steps.

“Cas!” he shouted, going to his knees beside his friend, and Cas could barely raise his head to look at him.  Dean sucked in a breath.

“I’m fine,” Cas assured him weakly, and Dean wanted to punch him because _no he fucking wasn’t_.  Instead, he propped him up against the side of the house and threaded his hand through Cas’ dark, messy hair, his eyes taking in the damage.  Cas was visibly exhausted, which wasn’t good, but also not exactly new.  What _was_ new was the vomit clinging to the edges of his lips, and his bruised purple hand, a bloody mess.  He was also covered in mud.  Dean sucked in another breath, gently tracing Cas’ cheek with his thumb as he tried to calm down and figure out what to do next. 

 _Y_ _ou can’t show your weakness, Dean._  His dad’s voice in his head was like an anchor, even as he tensed, sitting up just a little straighter, controlling his expression a little more.  

First things first, he reached out with the hand that wasn’t buried in Cas’ hair and wiped the mess away from his pale, chapped lips with his thumb.  Cas winced and looked away, his brow furrowed.  “I felt sick.  I’m sorry,” Cas whispered.   Dean forced himself to smile and shrug, reaching down to take Cas’ injured hand in his own, rolling it over to assess the damage.

_You gotta man up, be calm, be deliberate.  Bite your lip if you have to, but you keep yourself moving._

“Better out than in, man.  I bet you feel a hell of a lot better now.”  Cas let out a huff of air, but Dean saw the edges of his mouth turn up for a moment.  “This is gunna hurt, but I need to make sure your hand’s not broken.  Can you make a fist?”  Cas’ shaking fingers slowly curled into his palm and out again, a near inaudible whimper pulled from his lips. 

Dean kept moving his fingers gingerly against Cas’ warm face, silently glad he didn’t seem to be feeling too much pain.  He didn’t know if he could keep himself calm otherwise. 

“Can you walk?” he asked, meeting Cas’ stare with a small frown.  Cas nodded and began to push himself up against the wall, and Dean dropped both of his hands to Cas’ shoulders to help him.  When they were finally both upright, Cas turned toward the door, but Dean stopped him, and dragged him back.

Before Cas could say a word, Dean pulled him to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and burying his face in Cas’ neck.  “You scared me, you stupid son of a bitch,” he choked out against Cas’ pulse.  Cas was stiff beneath the press of his body for a moment, arms dangling uselessly to his sides, but slowly he began to relax.  His slender fingers reached up to grasp at Dean’s jacket moments before Dean pulled away, because if he didn’t stop now he didn’t know when he would.

He walked Cas inside, stopping for a moment so Cas could toe off his muddy shoes.  Sam looked up at them from the couch, surrounded by books, and papers, and his laptop, his eyes going wide.  “What’s wrong?”  Sam asked, voice pinched with concern as he pushed himself up from his seat.  Dean frowned and turned to look at Cas whose own face was drawn and expressionless, staring vacantly at his feet.

“Bad day,” Dean said, trying to keep himself steady. _Don’t panic.  You can’t do shit when you panic._ Sam frowned, watching his movements warily.

“What can I do to help?” Sam asked, and Dean was glad he was getting right to the point.  Dean let out a frustrated huff of air and dug his free hand into his pocket, finding his keys missing.  The Impala was still running in the driveway.

“I need you to grab some gauze, cotton balls and peroxide from under the bathroom sink.”  Dean said, watching as his brothers eyes raked over Cas’ body looking for the injury.  When his gaze landed on Cas’ hand, he sucked in an almost inaudible breath.  Sam didn’t hesitate after that, turning toward the bathroom without another word.

Dean pulled Cas into the kitchen, sitting him down at the table and settling in across from him.  He reached over and took Cas’ injured hand and balanced it on top of his own, thumb tracing his fingertips in an effort to be comforting.  Sam came back with the supplies not long after.

“Thanks, Sammy.  I left the car running in the driveway, I need you to shift her into park and get the keys out.  I can handle it from here.”  Sam looked doubtful about leaving them, and Dean could tell he was worried, but it would be easier for him if Sam was busy somewhere else, not hovering and fussing like he was prone to do when people he cared about were injured, or upset.  Once Sam had gone, Dean got to work, dumping a few cotton balls onto the kitchen table, grabbing the bottle of peroxide and soaking the first one through.

“What happened?” Dean asked after a few minutes of silence, gently sterilizing the open wounds on Cas’ knuckles.  Cas had been staring out the window, but he turned to look when Dean spoke, his eyes bloodshot and half open.  He didn’t answer.  “C’mon, man.  Talk to me,” he continued, feeling Cas’ fingers twitch against his open palm.

“Zachariah happened,” Cas said quietly, angrily, hazy blue eyes focused on Dean’s other hand as he set aside a soiled cotton ball to reach for a new one.  Dean nodded, frowning.

“That dick,” he said simply.  Dean wanted to wrap his hands around that fucker’s neck and squeeze. 

“I got angry and punched a slab of stone,” Cas continued, and Dean smiled a little bit.  Sounded like someone else he knew. 

He remembered, a few weeks after Sam had been shipped off to rehab and his father had driven away to god-knows-where again, taking a golf club to the hood of a beat up old car, Bobby watching on in silence as he brought it down over and over.  Dean shivered, and ran his fingers against Cas’ wrist in lieu of squeezing his hand.  Just to let him know he understood. 

Cas started shaking again, and Dean frowned as he slowly wrapped the injured hand in white gauze, his right hand at work while his left hand maneuvered Cas’.  Once he was finished, he found it difficult to let go, but he finally did.  He let Cas push himself up on his feet, and when he stumbled Dean was ready, his arms braced against Cas’ shoulders for support.  He took a moment to peek out the window and make sure Sam had shut the Impala off like he’d asked.  The kid was out there now, leaning against the hood.  When he saw Dean he nodded, and Dean nodded back.

Dean veered Cas into the bathroom next, giving him mouthwash the get the taste of bile out of his mouth.  Once they were done Cas tried to head back to the living room, but Dean took him by the wrist and pulled him into his bedroom, shutting the door behind them.  Cas stared at the floor, and Dean stared at him, eyeing the dried blood and mud stains on his shirt and his pants.

“You gotta get some sleep man.  And you need outta these clothes too.”

Dean was aware, intellectually, that Cas could undress himself, but he felt his hands move up to the other man’s neck, his fingers grazing the skin before he began to loosen Cas’ tie.  Cas was malleable beneath his hands as he worked.  He should fight him, or insist that he can do this shit on his own, but he didn't.  He just stood there, staring at the floor, letting Dean unbutton his black dress shirt, pushing it over his arms and letting it fall to the floor. 

Dean took a moment to wrap his hands around Cas’ biceps, squeezing a little as he watched his friend’s unchanging expression.  Cas was completely shutting down and Dean had no idea how to bring him back. 

After a few moments of wrestling with himself about it, Dean finally moved both his hands up to cup Cas’ face, lifting it up slowly in hopes to get Cas to look at him.  Cas’ eyes were so, so blue, even now when they’re dull from exhaustion, red veins surrounded by lids the color of bruises.  “What the hell did he say?” he asked Cas quietly, both his thumbs running over Cas’ sharp cheekbones.

Cas closed his eyes tight, a frown between his eyebrows, and Dean felt sick.  “It doesn’t matter.  It was true, anyway.  I was just too stubborn to hear it,” Cas said, his head turning so that his lips were pressed against Dean’s palm, and Dean felt his heart beating fast in his throat.  No it wasn’t, and it _did matter_.  Dean didn’t have any fucking clue what that douchebag Zach had said to Cas, but he’d never been more sure of something.  Nothing that could fuck Cas up this bad could be _right_. 

With one last small swipe of his thumbs, he dropped his hands to Cas’ waist, his fingers working to undo his belt. 

“Is this okay?” Dean asked, his hands stilling for a moment against the cold leather.  Cas leaned forward and touched his forehead to Dean’s, his eyes still resolutely on the carpet as he nodded his consent, and Dean was suddenly aware of how much this was not something he did, and it was scaring the shit out of him.  He reasoned to himself that it was because Cas needed it right now, and they were friends, and this was what friends did for each other when they were hurting.  It was like when he’d taken care of Sammy when they were kids, when his little brother was sick, or injured, or upset.

It was exactly the same, except he knew it wasn’t. 

_Listen to me._ _If you panic, you’re useless._  

He took a deep breath, pulling the belt open and moving to the button of Cas’ pants.  He did that part quickly, unbuttoning and unzipping the fly and then hastily moving to thread his fingers into the belt loops.  He pulled, and the weight of the belt allowed the slacks to fall easily to the floor, Cas stepping out of them, dressed only in his boxers and a black tee.  Dean tried not to think about how wrong he had been to think Cas was skinny.  The guy was lean, but he was clearly strong.  Not the type of person that would break easily.  That was comforting, somehow.

When Dean finally pulled away, Cas looked up at him on his own, his eyes open and pleading.  Like he wanted to ask something but he was afraid of what the answer might be.   “I can stay,” Dean said, trying to sound a little less willing than he actually was.  “If you want.”  Cas closed his eyes and nodded, and Dean didn’t make a big deal out of it, he just wrapped his arm around Cas’ shoulders and walked him to the bed.  Once Cas was curled up against the sheets, Dean stood up and moved to his dresser. 

He picked up a small box of cassettes and rifled through them, looking for the lamest, softest music he could find.  He finally decided on Air Supply, opening up the tape deck of the tiny boombox on the shelf, and sliding it in.  It started off near the beginning of "Having You Near Me" and Dean rolled his eyes because he forgot how sappy this whole fucking album was.  He tried not to mouth the lyrics.  “ _Don't speak too much of what's been going on, the past is over and gone, give me your troubled mind, you know it's due-_ ”

He almost didn’t hear Cas’ muffled, "Oh my God."

Dean let out a frustrated grunt and pressed the eject button, replacing Air Supply with his Boston cassette because everyone can fucking enjoy Boston.  He turned the volume low enough that they could hear it but still ignore it.  It wasn’t even for his own benefit; music just always seemed to relax Cas.  He sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his boots and throwing down his leather jacket. 

Cas’ eyes were open and staring at him when he finally leaned back, and he reached out to smooth back the hair that had fallen in front of his eyes.  Dean felt Cas tangle his good hand in the front of his shirt, tugging gently, and he moved forward, pulling Cas into his chest, one arm tucked up under his friend’s head and around his back, the other enclosing him, hand buried in Cas’ hair.  This close Dean could feel how tense he was. 

“Relax, Cas.”

He felt Cas let out a slow, warm breath against the inside of his arm, his body unfolding very slightly against his own.   Eventually, Cas’ grip on his shirt loosened as well, and his breathing steadied.  They stayed like that for over an hour, the music eventually tapering out with a small click.  Dean thought Cas might finally be asleep, but he kept holding on, just in case.

If Dean’s lips ended buried in dark, messy hair, no one had to know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for addiction and near-relapse

Sam sat on the floor of the living room in front of the television, mindlessly flipping through the channels in between reading chapters out of his history textbook. 

Saturday morning television had taken, in his opinion, a drastic turn for the worse since he was a kid.  He was completely disinterested in the new wave of cartoons, and he couldn’t watch those procedural cop shows anymore because they drudged up awful memories and the dull ache of need that he’d gotten used to ignoring, but never really went away.  Besides that it was all reruns of popular but mundane network shows and infomercials.  If Dean caught him watching reruns of _Say Yes to the Dress_ alone at eight in the morning Sam was pretty sure he would never hear the end of it. 

He needed a distraction, though.

Sam hadn’t gotten to see Cas before he’d headed to bed last night.  They’d both been holed up in Dean’s bedroom until well after the sun went down.  Sam had been concerned, but Dean seemed to have the situation under control.  He couldn’t remember the last time Dean had been so gentle with anyone.  Then again, Sam had hardly seen Dean with anyone who was so desperately in need of it. 

He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, trying not to think about the state Cas had been in.  Pale and shaking with blood staining lines down his fingers.

A door slammed at the other end of the house, and Sam heard Dean grunt and begin to pad heavily down the hallway.  Sam hardly had time to mute the television before Dean was standing at the end of the couch, running a hand through his hair and frowning as his eyes scanned the room.  Sam didn’t actually need to ask, but he did anyway.

“Cas gone?”

“The hell do you think?” Dean replied, his voice thick with sleep and frustration.

“Right.”  Sam stared at Dean, who had moved to the window to pull back the curtains, as if Cas might just be sitting in the driveway.  Sam took a deep breath.  “So wait, he stayed in your room all night?”  Dean tensed.  It made sense; it just hadn’t occurred to him that Cas would actually sleep in there.  It explained why the couch had looked the same as the way he’d left it the night before.  “Oh,” Sam breathed. 

“It’s not like that,” Dean grunted, letting the curtain fall back into place and shoving his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled jeans.  Sam bit his lip and raised his eyebrows, fighting back the growing urge to just call ‘bullshit’.

“What happened yesterday?” Sam asked, exhaling slowly as he rubbed the back of his neck.  Dean dropped onto the far end of the couch and buried his face in his hands while Sam waited patiently, looking up at his brother from his seat on the floor.

“Didn’t get a lot outta him, but apparently Zach said some shit.  It must have been bad… to mess him up like that.”  Dean’s shoulders slumped.  “I can’t believe he went back,” he continued, more quietly.

“Where was he supposed to go?”  Sam asked, pulling himself up to sit on the opposite end of the couch, tucking his feet up under the cushions.

“You saw him, Sam.  He was in bad fucking shape, and they, those… fucking dicks, they’re the reason.”  Dean gritted out, “I would have taken…” Dean pressed his lips together to stop himself, and took a deep breath.  “ _He_ could have stayed _here_.”

“He can’t just run away, Dean,” Sam said, trying to be logical.

“Why the hell not?” Dean asked, his frown deepening as he looked up at his brother. 

“Aside from the fact that he’s barely seventeen and he’d be labeled a runaway in twenty-four hours, he’s also not going to just up and abandon his family,” Sam explained.  “Cas couldn’t do that.”

“I’m not talking about abandoning them, even though I think it’s a goddamn fantastic idea, I’m just talking about taking a fucking time out,”  Dean explained irritably.  Sam frowned.  He couldn’t be sure to what extent Cas’ family cared about the way he spent his free time, but he knew they wouldn’t be okay if they found out he spent it with him and Dean.

“They can’t find out he’s been here," Sam told him. Dean’s eyes dropped for a split second, long enough for Sam to realize that he most likely hadn’t been considering it.

“I know that,” Dean grunted, eyes glued to his own fidgeting hands.  “Whatever, the guy can do what he wants.  I need a shower and then I’m heading to Bobby’s.”  Dean stood up, palming the back of his neck.  “If he comes by just…” he sighed and dropped his hand.  “Whatever.  Fuck it.”  Without another word Dean turned and stalked out of the room, Sam staring toward the empty doorway until he heard the bathroom door slam shut.

Sam settled himself against the back of the couch and stared at the muted television, letting the images wash over him without any attempt at recognition.  Dean was getting himself really worked up, and Sam could relate, because he cared about Cas too, but this was different.  Dean knew it too, but he was too scared and too stubborn to admit it out loud. 

Sam smiled sadly and let out a small breath of air, reaching into his pocket to pull out his cell phone.  Flipping it open, Sam scrolled through his short list of contacts before he landed on Cas, prompting a blank text file. 

 _you okay?_   Sam sent it off, knowing he probably wouldn’t receive a response, but it wouldn’t kill him to try.  Less than a minute later, though, the phone was buzzing in his hand. 

 _I’m fine.  Why?_ Sam smiled, relief washing over him.

_dean was worried. you left early again._

_Had to._

_dude text him and tell him youre okay hes slamming all the doors and this house isn’t that sturdy._

_I’m sorry.  I’ll text him now._ Sam sighed and moved to shove the phone back in his pocket, but he stopped himself, opening it up again.

 _youre really okay?  looked rough yesterday._ He stared at his phone for five minutes before it started buzzing again.

_I’m okay.  Really.  Thank you, Sam._

_np_

Fifteen minutes later Dean emerged fully dressed and freshly showered, running his fingers through his short, damp hair, and clutching his cell phone in the other hand.  He seemed marginally more relaxed. 

“Cas texted,” Dean explained, and Sam tried to look at least somewhat surprised.  “Said he’s okay, his brothers are leaving him alone for the most part.  Might not be around for a while.  You know, while things settle down.” Sam nodded as he watched Dean collect his keys from the bookshelf next to the television.  “Alright, well I’m out.  Do we need anything?”  Sam shrugged and Dean rolled his eyes.  “Well if it turns out we’re out of toilet paper or some other important shit, you aren’t allowed to give me grief.” 

Dean was trying to for lighthearted, but his tone was pinched and laced with hints of actual frustration, and Sam had to force a smile.

“Noted,” Sam replied, watching as Dean headed for the front door.

Sam spent the rest of the day buried in schoolwork.  He didn’t have any control over his past, but he could control his future, and despite the fact that he felt like he could never make up for what had happened, he was determined to do something with his life.  He needed to prove to himself that he was capable of being better.  Maybe if he convinced himself he could convince everyone else, too.

\--

It became increasingly apparent throughout the weekend that without Cas there as a buffer, him and Dean had problems. 

They had always been closer than most siblings.  Growing up, it had always just been the two of them alone on the road with their father.  He was less absent in those days, but most nights it would still just be Sam and Dean in a ratty motel while Dad was off chasing another lead on whatever case he’d taken that week, or that month.  Dean was always there to look after him, make sure they had something to eat, even if it was just a cold can of beans.  Sam remembered some nights when there was so little food left Dean wouldn’t eat at all, and it twisted him up inside that he hadn’t really understood the implications of that when he was young.  

They had been close, though.  It was impossible not to be, growing up the way they had.

It wasn’t the perfect relationship by any means.  Sam had always been the one trying to run away, resenting the life he had been forced into.  He would fight it every time they were forced to pack up and leave a new town, just as Sam had gotten used to it and made a friend or two, and Dean would try his damn hardest to make the split less painful.  His brother would bring him new books, which Sam realized some years later were probably stolen, and he would initiate prank wars to make him laugh again. Sam had still been miserable, though, sometimes lashing out, and even going so far as to run away once. 

It wasn’t that Sam was ungrateful, he was just tired.  He wanted a real life, but Dean seemed complacent with their situation, and that was frustrating because he was decidedly not.  Still, despite it all they had always had one another, and even if they fought there was never any real bad blood between them. 

There was now. 

The incident hung heavily on both of them, and no matter how much either of them pushed they couldn’t fit the pieces back together.  It was tense, even more than when he had first arrived home, because the relief at finally being out and being together again had worn off.  Cas had blown into their lives at the exact right time, and he softened the edges, made it easier to act normal.  As normal as any of them could pretend to be, anyway.  Cas being gone now was like ripping out the stiches on a still bleeding wound.

“Heard from Cas today?”  Sam asked, because it was the only thing he could think of that might get a genuine reaction from Dean.  Dean had been spaced out in front of the television since he woke up that morning.  His mouth quirked a little and Sam sighed, leaning back on the armrest of the couch.

“He checked in this morning.  Still fine.  He’ll be at school tomorrow,” Dean replied, not-so-subtly moving his hand into his jacket pocket to feel for his cell phone.  Sam smiled at that, and Dean frowned back, jerking his hand up and running it through his hair.  After a few halfhearted comments on the episode of _Cheers_ they were barely paying attention to, they fell back into silence.

\--

“Everything okay?” Sam asked on a whim the next morning as they climbed into the Impala, his fingers busy at the hem of his plaid button up.

“What?” Dean asked, avoiding Sam’s eyes as he turned to watch behind him while backing out of the driveway.

“Like between us,” Sam paused, but Dean didn’t react other than to grip the wheel a little tighter.  “I know I… Look, I know I fucked up Dean and it’s been rough…”

“Just, stop.  Stop right there.  It’s whatever… it’s the past.  We’ve moved past it,” Dean replied, his eyes fixed on the road with an abnormal determination.  Sam felt his hands ball into fists, fingernails digging through his shirt into his palms.

“When?  When did we move past it?” Sam asked, trying to gnash down the frustration that was eating away at him.

“I don’t want to talk about this, Sam,” Dean snapped, and Sam glanced at the speedometer and noticed Dean was close to pushing twenty miles over the speed limit.  Right, there was _obviously_ no tension there.  Sam opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t know what to say, and so he just let it hang open while Dean sped around another corner. 

Things were wrong between them, and Dean seemed adamant to ignore it.  A fresh wave of guilt settled in his stomach, because who the hell was he to feel wronged when he had, in one night, single-handedly broken everything he and Dean had worked so hard to build.

Maybe a year of hedging, avoidance, and distraction hadn’t done enough to help either of them really heal.

Once they were at school, Sam watched as Dean stalked his way through the congested halls away from him, throwing his hand up in a mock wave before disappearing into the crowd.  Sam let his breath trickle out through his teeth.  He made his way through as well, avoiding eye contact as much as possible.  The looks Sam had first received in droves were growing infrequent, which Sam was grateful for in a weirdly empty way.  He wasn’t sure the isolation was much better, but it was less stressful.  He kept his head down until he made it to his homeroom, sliding into one of the seats and pressing his face against his folded arms.

“Sam, you okay?”  Sam glanced up, and there was Jess, brow furrowed as her big brown eyes met his.  His breath caught in his throat when she shot him a half smile.  “We’ve got some time before the bell… want to run to the cafeteria?  They’re selling fresh chicken biscuits today.”

“I don’t have any money,” Sam said, smiling apologetically as he sat back against the uncomfortable desk chair.  Jess shrugged.

“Don’t worry, I got you.” She took his wrist between her thumb and forefinger and tugged, and he obliged, his eyes glued to the spot where her skin met his own. 

He knew he should pull away, refuse the offer, but he couldn’t, and he didn’t want to.  He was tired of fighting, and Jess didn’t seem to care about his past.  This wasn’t messy, even though there was a little voice in his head reminding him that it would be if he didn’t pull away.  He hated the idea of letting her into his world only for her to find out how messed up he really was.  She might be accepting now, when all she could possibly have to go on were the rumors circulating around the school, but he knew that the truth was probably worse, and everyone had a breaking point.  

Still, she was so open and warm, and he just wanted a friend, one that wasn’t tangled into the mess that was his past.  

Her hand was still on his wrist as they made their way through the hall, and he let himself feel, for a moment, normal.

 --

Dean shoved his way through the crowd, walking right past the turn he should take to get to his homeroom.  It wasn’t his priority. He made his way past the double doors leading into the cafeteria and out the back to the senior courtyard. 

Cas was sitting on the brick ledge that curved around half of the concrete awning, staring into the small patch of woods beyond the science trailers, a perfectly content expression on his face.  For once, he looked like he’d gotten some sleep, and Dean’s lips quirked in a small smile.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Cas’ lips parted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“ _In the quiet of the railway station running scared , laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go, looking for the places only they would know…_”  Dean stared at him, letting the soft, grainy melody wash over him.  Simon and Garfunkel didn’t sound so bad on Cas’ tongue.  “ _Lie la lie..._ ”  

Dean had the fleeting urge to close the space between them, taste the song that seemed to center Cas.  Ever since Dean had felt him pressed against his chest a few nights ago, breathing small, warm breaths against the inside of his arm. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

The craving to be close to him, to _touch_ him, kiss him. 

It wasn’t just that, though, it was all the moments before when they’d grazed shoulders or pushed at each other, his hand lingering a little too long on Cas’ arm.  The other night had just made it impossible for him to continue pretending like it wasn’t something he wanted.  But Cas was his friend, and in his experience it wasn’t good to assume he’d be into guys, or into _him_. 

Dean ignored the urge, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and clearing his throat.  Cas didn’t flinch, he just turned his head to look down at Dean, the smallest smile on his lips. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, his eyes raking over Dean’s face openly.  Dean frowned, digging the toe of his boot into the cracks in the concrete.  

“Hey, Cas.  How’s the hand?” Dean asked, moving to lean back against the brick wall next to Cas, his shoulder nudging Cas’ knee.  He saw Cas open and close his hand in the corner of his eye, gauze replaced with smaller flesh colored bandages.  His fingers trembled slightly, but Cas just stared at them, frowning and squinting like he was more interested than bothered.  Dean laughed.  “Better then?”

“Seems like it,” Cas responded, placing the hand back on his knee. “The bell will ring soon.”  Dean smiled and shrugged, running a hand through his hair as he stared forward.

\--

“Not really in the mood for class today, man,” Dean admitted, glancing up at Cas.  Cas looked down at him, confusion on his face.

“Then why did you come?  Sam can take the bus.”  Dean actually loved that Cas didn’t question his tendency to skip out on class, or find it necessary to scold him about it, even though for some reason he seemed to think he was capable of more.  Told him so one night a couple weeks ago after marathoning the Indiana Jones movies, Sam passed out and drooling on the floor in front of them. 

Cas missed a lot of school himself, or at least he had recently, but Dean was fairly certain it had less to do with disinterest and more to do with his family.  Somehow he was still in these selective as hell AP courses and apparently keeping up despite missing so much.  Dude was kind of a genius. 

“Dean?” Oh, right.  Cas had asked him a question.

“I dunno,” Dean grumbled under his breath.  He did know, and the answer to the question was sitting beside him, knee digging hard into the muscle of his shoulder, neither of them moving to break the small amount of contact.  No way in hell Dean was going to admit outright that he had come just to see for himself that Cas was alright.  Thankfully, Cas didn’t press him further.  “Thinking about paying Ellen a visit Wednesday night.  I know you’re still trying to smooth shit over with your dick brothers, but if you got the time you should come by.  You’d like Ellen, Jo too.”

“I could manage that,” Cas replied right as the bell rang, and they parted, watching the students inside scrabbling to make it to their classrooms on time.  Dean sighed and headed for the door, but the feeling of fingers gripping his shoulder froze him in place.  They stood there for half a second in complete silence before Dean turned around to look Cas in his squinty blue eyes.  “Thank you, Dean,” he said simply.  Dean laughed and brushed Cas’ hand off his shoulder.

“Shut up, man.  Let’s get going.”  Cas smiled and fell into step beside him.

\--

Castiel stared at himself in the mirror, taking a moment to press his fingers against the dark exhausted bruises under his eyes. 

He had been sleeping a little better the past few nights, but the high was wearing thin and it was getting more and more difficult to drift off.  After waking up cocooned in Dean’s arms, he had felt a calm wash over him that he wasn’t used to.  He didn’t want to leave it.  It felt like home, the slow steady thrum of Dean’s heartbeat against Castiel’s cheek. Leaving had been hard, and not just because Dean had been clinging to him like a lifeline.  

Dean had smelled like oil and rainwater, and Castiel couldn’t help but to take time to try and memorize his features, tracing the edge of his jaw experimentally with his good hand.  He was afraid Dean might wake up, afraid he might see him, see he was alright, and pull away again, so Castiel kept his touches light and experimental.  He cherished the dip if his chin below his lips, the slight stubble against his jawline, the long lashes on his heavy lidded eyes.   He gathered his courage and pressed his lips into the hollow space where Dean’s collarbone dipped below his throat, and Dean had stirred, but thankfully not woken, his warm breath coming out in sighs against Castiel’s hair. 

Now, Castiel dragged his fingers from below his eyes to his lips, and felt his chest tighten.  It was painful in a sweet way, and he craved more. 

He looked himself over, and he frowned at how stiff he seemed.  Turning away from the mirror, he headed to his dresser and, after a few moments of searching, pulled out an old pair of jeans that he hadn’t worn in over a year.  Castiel slipped out of his black pleated slacks and pulled on the more comfortable replacements.  When he was done he rolled up the sleeves on his blue oxford and, while he was at it, undid the top three buttons so that his black undershirt was visible beneath it.  He moved back toward the mirror and, after a moment of quiet contemplation, decided that he had finally managed to cross over the precipice from ‘stilted loner in church pants’ to ‘actual approachable teenager’.

Dean had been texting him off and on all afternoon, letting him know when to meet up at the Roadhouse and other minute details Castiel probably didn’t need to know, like how long Sam had spent in the bathroom fixing up his hair.  He didn’t mind the intermittent buzzing as he tugged on his own hair, frowning at the way it stuck up no matter how many times he ran his fingers through the dark waves in a vague attempt to flatten them. 

He didn’t know why it mattered, but he wasn’t exactly good at this, and he wanted to at least pretend he knew something about how to function in public with new people.  He didn’t have social anxiety, but he had spent so much of the past year (and all the years before it, really) being generally closed off and antisocial that his people skills were, understandably, a little rusty.  Sam and Dean had kind of just been a happy accident.

Before he left the house, Castiel checked to make sure none of his brothers were around to see him leave.  They hadn’t really been speaking since the day at the grave, but he was making it a point to have dinner with Uriel, and sometimes Zachariah, the past few days, because despite their disagreements, he did still care.  Once he was sure his brothers were off elsewhere, he left out the front door, locking it behind him. 

He spent twenty minutes walking to the bar, and another five minutes standing out in front staring down the big red sign as if it had personally offended him.

“Cas!” Sam’s voice pulled him out of his semi-trance, and he turned to see Sam and Dean walking toward him, a grin on the younger Winchester’s face.  Cas smiled, because he realized he had missed Sam; he had missed both of them.  Dean was frowning, but it was one of those frowns he put on when he was trying to pretend to be disinterested, and he made his way toward Castiel despite it.

“Lookin’ sharp tonight, buddy.  Trying to pick up a cute girl?”  Dean joked, grabbing hold of his shoulder and pushing him toward the door playfully.

“I… I don’t…” Castiel stuttered, red faced and frowning.

“Come on, let’s get inside.  Jo’s been texting me all day.”  Castiel sighed and ignored the uncomfortable twist of his gut, allowing himself to be led into the bar. 

“Dean Winchester, you better not be bringing more minors into my bar!” the woman behind the bar scolded, three bottles of beer between her fingers as she moved, dropping one off at each patron in turn.  Castiel noticed that the woman carried herself with an air of unmistakable confidence, and he had a feeling she wasn’t the type to lose many arguments.  She was also warm when she smiled at him, her eyes scanning him from head to toe.  Dean rolled his eyes and smirked, setting a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Course not, Ellen.  We’re here for Jo, anyway.”

“Good.  After last time, I’m not trusting that ‘restraint’ of yours,”  Ellen shot Dean a reprimanding look as she walked out from behind the bar, and to Castiel’s surprise Dean’s shoulders slumped, eyes tracing the cracks in the floor.  Castiel thought that Dean wore the humbled look a little too well for it to not be a commonplace thing between him and Ellen. “Jo’s out back takin’ care of the trash, should be back soon.  You gunna introduce me to your friend?”  Dean straightened up, and gripped Castiel’s shoulder again like he was trying to center himself.

“Ellen, this is Cas.” He motioned unnecessarily between the two of them, and Castiel felt a grin pulling at his lips.  “Cas, this is Ellen.  She kinda takes care of me and Sam.”  Ellen laughed, throaty and genuine.

“Kinda?” she repeated, cocking an eyebrow at Dean, and Dean smirked.

“Nice to meet you, Ellen,” Castiel said, holding out a hand for her.  She grabbed it, but instead of shaking it like he expected she pulled him forward into a bone crushing hug.

“We hug in this family.  Better get used to it,” she said kindly, but forcefully.  Castiel smiled, bringing his arms up to give her a small squeeze before pulling away again. 

Once they separated Ellen’s eyes trailed behind them, landing on Sam who was standing off to the side like he wasn’t sure he belonged.  Ellen brushed past Castiel to pull Sam into her arms, and there were tears in her eyes when Sam hugged her back just as tightly, almost desperately.  “We missed you, boy.  You should have come to see me sooner,” she said, voice thick with tears.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mumbled into her shoulder.  Castiel glanced at Dean, who was watching the scene with a faraway expression, his mouth slightly parted.

Jo was less generous with the physical affection than her mother had been right off the bat, but she was no less warm.  After ruffling Sam’s hair and throwing a few well aimed jibes Dean’s way, she pulled Castiel aside to an old, but sturdy, billiards table, grabbing two pool cues, one for her and one for Castiel.  He took the polished stick apprehensively. 

He had seen this done in movies a couple times, but he had never tried it himself.  From what he could gather it was all about geometry, and that was something he could wrap his head around. 

“Do you play?” she asked, taking a small square of chalk and spinning it against the cue tip.  Cas shook his head and held his hand toward her as she offered him the chalk.  “That’s okay, I’ll go easy on you,” she smirked, picking up a triangular frame and setting it in the top center of the green felt.  She moved to pick up the colorful, numbered balls from the gutter where they had collected after a finished game.

“Don’t bet her any money, Cas.  Girl’s a goddamn hustler,” Dean warned, situating himself behind Castiel to inspect his cue tip. He was so close he could feel Dean's body heat against his skin, and he had to remind himself to breathe.  Dean waggled his eyebrows suggestively at him before he backed off.

“You’re one to talk, Winchester.  You and Sam cheated me out of a whole week’s paycheck,” Jo shot back at him, placing a plain white ball directly opposite the neat pyramid at the other end of the table.

“Hey, play dirty and expect to get played back,”  Sam teased, leaning against the wall behind her.  She turned around and shoved him playfully, her smile wide.  They acted like siblings, Castiel noticed, the way they picked at one another. 

“Yeah, well I doubled it the next time we played.  Don’t cross a Harville.”

It turned out that after a few awkward attempts at showing Castiel how to aim his cue, he was kind of a natural at it.  Jo stared at him wide eyed after he sunk three balls in one shot halfway through their second game. 

“You’re playing me.  He’s playing me, right?” Jo turned to Dean, who had the smuggest smile on his face as if he’d been the one to make the shot. 

“I don’t understand what that means.  It’s just simple geometry,” Castiel tried to explain, frowning, and Dean smiled so genuinely at him he felt his ears start to burn.  Jo laughed and braced herself against the edge of the table.

“Alright, hot wings.  Let’s see you do it again.”

\--

It was getting late, and Sam was worried about getting enough sleep before school the next day, so he pulled himself up off the barstool where he’d sat between Jo and Cas in easy conversation, Dean behind the bar helping Ellen with some dishes. 

“We should head out, Ellen.  School in the morning.”  Ellen smiled and nodded while Jo made a discontented noised under her breath.

“That’s right, Joanna Beth.  Means bed for you too,” Ellen responded, reaching out to ruffle her daughter’s hair until it was clumped and sticking up, a blonde mess.  Jo pushed her mother’s hand away, groaning again for emphasis.

“Fiiiiiine,” Jo relented, sliding off the barstool and tugging on the sleeve of Cas’ shirt.  “You look tired, you gunna make it home alright?”  Cas smiled and nodded at her, and she reached up to run a hand through his hair playfully.  It was amazing how well both Ellen and Jo had taken to Cas.

“I’m gunna help Ellen finish these, but you can go warm up the car if you’re in a hurry,” Dean said, elbow deep in soapy water.  Sam shrugged.

“Where are the keys?”  Sam asked, eying his brother warily. 

“Back pocket,” Dean teased, swaying his hips a little. 

“No,” Sam choked.  Dean laughed. 

“Hey Cas, I could use a hand here, yours specifically!”  Dean shouted.  Sam looked over at Cas, who was suddenly wide eyed.  Sam rolled his own eyes, fighting down the sudden urge to punch his brother.  Cas had never looked so petrified as he did approaching Dean.  Dean turned to face him, a smug grin as he looked Cas up and down.  “C’mon, Cas.  Don’t be a baby.”  Cas frowned at him and shoved his hand into Dean’s back pocket, and Dean laughed more when he had to dig around for a second before grabbing hold of his keys and tugging them out again. 

“Dean, you’re such an asshole,” said Jo, walking up beside him and splashing him with a handful of soapy dishwater.  Dean glared at her and she just giggled, standing up on her toes to place a small kiss on his cheek.  Dean smiled and nudged her with his shoulder before she turned back toward the bar. Meanwhile, Cas walked up to Sam and placed the keys in his hand.

“We’ll be out in a couple minutes,” Cas told him, and Sam nodded back.

The air was cold and sharp as Sam pushed his way out the door, feeling his cotton jacket was a little insubstantial for the increasingly harsh weather.  He tugged it tighter around himself, and made his way around back to the parking lot, but there was someone in his way, leaning up against the building with a cigarette pinched between two fingers.

“Hello, Sam.  Long time, no?”  the figure approached him, a deceptively friendly grin on his familiar face as he looked Sam up and down.  Sam felt a shiver run up his spine. 

“Leave me alone.”  Sam told him, trying to hide the way his hands had started shaking.  He wasn’t ready for this.  A year of being clean and he didn’t think he would ever be ready for this.  Crowley took a step back as if to allow Sam room to breathe.

“You and your girlfriend were a good source of income for me, once.  Where’ve you been?  Haven’t been buying from someone else, I hope?”  Crowley took a slow drag of his cigarette, and Sam grimaced.  “Break my heart.” 

“Rehab,” Sam said, hoping it would drive the point home that he wasn’t interested.  Except he was, just the thought of the drug within reach was enough to send him back to the first week he’d had to go without it, sweating and vomiting and feeling like he was going to die and sometimes hoping he just fucking would.  He felt his chest constrict at the memory.

“That’s a shame.”  Crowley said, sticking two fingers in the pocket of his suit jacket to pull out a quarter-sized plastic bag of what looked like raw sugar.  Sam knew better.  His mouth went dry and he clenched his shaking hands into fists, trying to ignore the voice in his head screaming need, need, _need_.  “A real shame.”

“Put it away.” Sam growled through his teeth, trying to look anywhere but at the bag between Crowley’s fingers.  “ _Please._ ”

“You sure?  Because I’ve got half a mind to let you walk away with this free of charge.  Call it a, uh, a little homecoming present.”  Sam’s fingers twitched, aching to reach out and take it.  It would be so easy.  He could feel something again, he could feel good again, lose himself in tired euphoria, because life was so dull, and painful, and hard.  He ached for escape, he ached to feel, and he didn’t understand why it was so _wrong_ to _need_.  He didn’t realize he was reaching out until he felt the bag against his fingertips, and then he hyper focused, his eyes set on the powder, his breath shallow.  No.  _Stop._   He had to _stop_.

“Sam!” He heard Dean’s voice and his fingers went slack, the bag slipping through them and onto the concrete.  “Sam what the hell is going on?”  Dean’s hands gripped his shoulders, eyes glued on his shaking hands, and Sam felt like he was going to throw up.  He opened his mouth to speak but he couldn’t make sound come out.  “Sam, talk to me damn it!”  Sam tried to focus on Dean, but when his gaze met his brothers eyes all he could see was anger and disappointment, and he broke.

“I’m sorry,” Sam choked.  “I need it.”  Dean stared at him, mouth half open, his eyes hard. 

“The hell is this, then?”  Crowley asked angrily, trying to insert himself back into the equation.  Sam looked up at him in time to see Cas barrel forward, shoving Crowley up against the building.  Crowley laughed, throaty and stifled beneath the weight of Cas’ elbow against his windpipe.  “Hello again.  Long time no threaten. Miss me?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Cas growled, pushing Crowley harder against the wall.

“Cas, you know this guy?” Dean shouted, and Sam slumped against his grip, fighting back the urge to drop to the ground.  The only thing that managed to dampen the horrible craving was the guilt.  Cas was fighting for him, and Dean was fighting to keep him there, and all he could fucking do was shake and want and _beg_.

“Please, please, please,” Sam muttered, his eyes drooping slightly, trying to calm himself, trying to remember what the doctors had told him.  What had they told him?

_Breathe._

“He’s a drug dealer,” he heard Cas say, voice thick with anger, the physical strain against Crowley evident in his tone.

“Just doing my job, sweetheart,” Crowley replied, a smirk in his voice like he was proud of himself.  Sam thought he might have the fucking right to be.  All Crowley had to do was wave temptation in front of his face and Sam was ready to start begging like a dog after scraps.  It was disgusting.  _He_ was _disgusting_.

“You don’t come near Sam, or I’ll make sure you can never do your job again,” Cas threatened. 

“You think you’ve got that kind of power?  I don’t work for your big bad brother anymore, you know.  Had different ideals,” Crowley explained.  Sam didn’t understand, and he tried to push through the haze of blind want in order to focus more on what was actually happening around him.

“The hell is he talking about?” Sam heard Dean ask, unsure of whether it was directed toward him or Cas.  Either way it didn’t matter, because Sam had no idea, and Cas ignored him.

“Huh,” Cas said, feigning interest.  “Yet you still sell his product?  Trying to edge in on his territory, Crowley?  Funny.” Sam glanced up at Crowley to see a look of genuine fear strike across his face.  “Seems I’m even more dangerous to you now,” Cas continued, unparsed.  “Stay away from Sam, and I won’t let my ‘big bad brother’ know what his _former employee_ has been up to.  How about that?”

“This show for me or him, sweetheart?” Crowley glanced deliberately at Dean, his eyebrows raised.  Sam felt Dean’s hands grip his shoulders even tighter.  “Gotta admit I love it when you go all wrath of God, makes my bits go all tingly, but don’t you think you’re overdoing it?” Crowley teased, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Don’t _push_ me.  You know what Raphael is capable of,” Cas threatened. “I could give you an idea of what I’m capable of, if you’d prefer.”  Crowley laughed, but it was cut short by a pained gasp.  “Leave.  Sam.  Alone,” Cas finished, his voice like ice.

Sam didn’t register a lot after that.  Crowley must have run off, because soon he was being ushered into the backseat of the Impala, realizing he must have been sweating when he felt the cold leather sticking uncomfortably to his skin.  He closed his eyes, and all he could see was flame and powder, and all he could feel was the emptiness that had been left behind.  

\--

Cas tried talking to him, voice stifled and calm, but Dean ignored him. They rode home in uncomfortable silence as Sam curled up into himself in the backseat.  Once he pulled into the driveway of their house, he rushed out, opening the back door to grab Sam and lead him inside.  Cas followed behind them, silent and attentive, hands ready to reach out if they needed it. 

Dean was determined not to. 

Once they were inside and Dean was relatively sure Sam was able to stand up on his goddamn own, he stalked to his bedroom, ignoring the way Cas was calling out to him.

Dean didn’t know what to fucking do.  He had known that getting over addiction was not a fucking walk in the park.  It took time, but Sam had been fucking _begging_.  Not like a person who had spent four months in intensive rehab, and a whole year clean, but like the boy who’d once been shaking and writhing on a motel bed with a fucking leather belt between his teeth. 

He couldn’t protect Sam then, and he sure as hell couldn’t protect him now.  Who the fuck was he kidding? 

 _You were supposed to look after him.  One fucking job, Dean, and you blew it.  He could have_ died _tonight._ Dean could almost _feel_ his father there, like he was looming over him in the cramped space between his bed and the wall, and Dean was _scared_.

“I know sir, I’m sorry sir,” he heard himself say.

His hands fumbled at his nightstand drawer until it opened, and he found the barely touched bottle of whiskey nested between old receipts and power cords.  He grabbed it, and brought it to his lips, bits of it dribbling down his chin and throat.  It was vile and harsh, and he focused on it like it was the only sensation in his world.  More real than Sam’s shaking, or his father’s voice.  Those were memories, this was concrete. 

He couldn’t stop the memories though.  The feeling of waking up in heat and smoke, the alarm shrill and pounding against his head like a hammer.  He’d felt the warm, slender frame of Anna pressed up against him, her hands gripping at his shirt.  In his panic he had forgotten, pulling away and racing toward the only thing in the world that mattered.  _Sam._  He’d booked it down the hallway, the smoke black and thick, bumping into walls as he felt for Sam’s bedroom door.  When his hands found it, the metal had been scalding hot, so he rammed his shoulder against the door and called out to Sam before reaching for the knob again, hand wrapped up in the thin cloth of his tee, a wave of heat rushing to meet him. 

Sam was just inside, a shroud of black smoke nearly concealing him. He was slumped on the floor barely clothed and shaking, and Dean bent down, heat licking at him from every angle, to hook his arms up under his brother’s and dragged him out.  He had moved, panting, through the smoke filled hallways until he found his way to the exit, ramming his shoulder against the old wood door over and fucking over rather than let go of his brother. 

It was only once they were outside in the brisk air that his mind started working again, and he knew he had to go back inside, had to get the girls.  Sam hadn’t been the only one in danger. 

He moved to reenter the house, hardly able to stand upright he was coughing so bad, but Sam had a death grip on his wrists.  He was sobbing and begging Dean not to go back.  Not to get killed. 

He shouldn’t have fucking listened.

_Don’t cry, you’re not a kid anymore, Dean.  Take responsibility._

He couldn’t save anyone.

When he raised the bottle to his lips again he couldn’t hold it still.  He was shaking and almost none of the drink even made it into his mouth, most of it just leaving dark, expanding stains in the soft cotton of his shirt.  It pissed him off. When he tried to bring the bottle back to his lips for another attempt, he felt a tug, a force preventing the movement.  Cas’ hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle, and Dean stared up at him, his eyes bleary.

“The hell are you doing here?” Dean snapped, trying to pry the bottle back. Cas’ grip was stronger.

“I’m trying to help,” Cas responded, setting the bottle on the floor next to them and looking back at Dean, doing that stupid thing he always did with his eyes that made Dean feel like he was getting picked apart.

“Yeah… well… fuck off.  What… what the fucking hell was all that about anyway?  Your brother some kind of fucking drug lord now?  Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” Dean shot at him.  This was easier.  Easier than admitting to the guilt that was eating him up.  He knew Cas didn’t go along with his family’s shit, so what did it matter what his asshole older brother did?  It was just easier to argue. Easier to be angry.

“Just because he’s family doesn’t mean I have to agree with his choices,” Cas said calmly, resting his weight on his knees.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.  I didn’t know how.”  Dean felt his heart plummet.

“No don’t… you fucking dare.”  Dean wanted a fight, but Cas was fucking _apologizing_.  Dean tried to back away, his hands gripping at the rough, cheap carpet.  “What the hell is wrong with you?”  Cas looked genuinely hurt for a moment, his eyes darting around the room like he was looking for a way out.  “Why do you _care_?” Dean continued.  Cas frowned and looked back at him, his lips pressed together.

“I could have done it, you know?  She was right fucking there, right fucking next to me when the fire started.  I could have grabbed her and pulled her out, but I didn’t.”  His throat was tight and he felt his eyes burning with tears and he hated it, hated himself for it because he couldn't afford to be this weak.  He searched Cas’ face for some reaction, anger or disappointment, but there was nothing and so he pressed on.

“I went for Sam instead, and I,” Dean choked, throwing a fist into the floor.  He needed to feel something, anything but this.  “I didn’t save anyone, not Anna, not Ruby, and not even Sam. Not really.  All he wanted was a normal fucking life and look where the hell we are.  He should hate me,” Dean sucked in a breath, bringing a hand up to his face to try and erase the physical evidence of his fucking breakdown.  “You, you should fucking hate me.” His voice broke against his palm, and he gripped at the skin around his mouth like he was trying to tear it off.  He jumped when he felt Cas’ hands on his face, his thumbs pressing gently at the edges of his swollen eyes.

“You did everything you could, Dean,” Cas said, his eyes focusing on Dean’s own.  There was nothing there but understanding, and Dean hated him for that.

“You really can’t believe that,” Dean said bitterly, unable to keep himself from leaning into Cas’ touch.

“I do,” Cas replied, and for the first time Dean thought he heard his voice break.  “I could never hate you, Dean,” he continued, leaning forward and touching their foreheads together, and Dean felt his heartbeat in his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, hating himself more for not having the strength to pull away. He let out a small, helpless laugh.  Cas just sat there, holding Dean’s face in his hands, breath coming out in small pants against his lips.  They were so close now. Dean could feel the ghost of his lips, breath caught in the space between them. Cas traced his thumbs across his cheeks, brushing against the edges of his mouth.

“You can’t save everyone,” Cas said quiely.  Dean couldn’t respond other than to nudge Cas’ face with his own, their noses brushing together, a warm, shaking breath. A silent plea. Begging to lose himself, terrified to try. He leaned in just a little further, his upper lip barely touching Cas', the skin hot where it stuck.  Cas took a small breath before he finally closed the distance.

Dean kissed him back hard, Cas' hands gripping the sides of Dean’s face like if he let go he might disappear, heartbeat thrumming in his thumbs.  He felt his lips parting around Cas’, breath hot and ragged as Cas pulled him closer.  Dean moved hurriedly, head spinning, trying to memorize the feel of him, fingers touching the hem of his shirt, catching the seam, need in every movement.  Winding his hands into the stiff fabric of Cas’ shirt, Dean pulled him closer, their teeth knocking together, clumsy.  Cas tasted so fucking good, his mouth pliant and warm and trying desperately to devour him.  Dean needed to let him. 

All too soon, Cas pulled away, a frantic look in his eyes, his lips swollen pink.

"I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, trying to back away.  Dean didn’t let him, tugging Cas forward and moving his mouth to press up against the warm skin of Cas’ neck.

“Too late.”


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel felt the familiar thrum of his heartbeat in his throat, touching his fingers to his pulse to ground the sensation.  It made his head thrill. 

He really hated leaving, but right then he hated the idea of staying even more. Having to face Dean after he’d more or less taken advantage of him.  Ignoring the taste of the cheap whiskey lingering on Dean’s tongue, kissing him anyway.  He should have known what he was doing was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself.  Dean was saying all these things, breaking down, reaching out, and Castiel had fallen into it.  He had wanted to prove how completely and horribly wrong Dean was.

Dean would wake up with a headache and remember what had happened, and Castiel didn’t want to imagine what he would think of him after that.

It didn’t keep him from wanting to turn back, go into the house and back to Dean’s room and press their bodies together, Dean lending him warmth, his mouth tasting his salted skin.  Instead he made his way home under dim orange streetlamps, hands bunched up against the cold, stuck in his jacket sleeves, a dull nausea settling in the pit of his stomach. 

He hated the feeling, especially since it had been days since he had felt it. 

His chest felt tight and heavy. The kiss had unraveled him but now he was worse than before.  He knew he should talk to him.  He could catch Dean in the usual places at school.  They never really planned to meet up, they didn’t share any classes, but they had learned each other’s patterns and had begun situating themselves near one another despite it.  The idea of the meeting still filled him with a disproportionate amount of dread.

It was thankfully still dark when he made it back to his house, the door creaking slightly as he entered, but there was no one there to be disturbed.  He made his way up the stairs and to the bathroom, losing himself in the repetitive patterns of the black and white tile and the rising steam from the shower head. 

Castiel let the water burn angry red marks into his skin, trailing a hand down his front to his half hard cock, stroking himself unenthusiastically, trying to cling to heat he’d let himself take earlier.  He was never adept at forcing sexual fantasies, and right then the dread outweighed any lingering warmth radiating from the light marks of teeth against his collarbone.  Unsatisfied, he left the shower and headed back down the empty hallway to his room, his sanctuary. 

Lately it had felt less and less like one, and more like a prison with very specific and personalized décor.

He still found peace surrounded by the religious symbols, idols, and texts scattered around his room.  There was something oddly comforting about the idea of faith, even if he did not find any one single belief system to latch onto.  He loved the stories they told, though, the ideals they promised.  The meaning they held, each very specific and somehow universal in turn. He’d taken to collecting the idea of faith when he found himself losing his own, and somehow it had become more personal that way, more effective. 

He touched the edge of a frame that hung over his bed before falling back against the sheets, nothing but a damp towel draped over his hip.  It was four hours until sunrise, just enough time to attempt sleep.  He lay there in silence, in and out of consciousness, perpetually aware of the walls that pushed in on him from all sides.

Castiel didn’t find Dean in the hallways, or the courtyard.  At least not right away, and his anxiety swelled despite his better efforts to remain rational. 

Dean missed classes all the time, there was no reason he should think it had anything to do with the kiss.  That was what the rational half of his brain was telling him, anyway.  The other half was filling him to the brim with toxic what-ifs that roiled in his stomach until he was left feeling that, not for the first time that day, he was going to be sick. 

He couldn’t lose Dean.  Not now.  Even if he could never touch him again, which was honestly a horrible prospect, Dean was still the best friend he’d ever had.  He and Sam had given him something that had been missing from his life for such a long time, even since before Anna had died.  They were important.  He felt selfish for wanting more, but still, he couldn’t help it.  He wanted Dean.  He couldn’t _stop_ wanting Dean.

After looking and failing to find him all day, when he finally did see Dean shoving his way through the halls on his way to his last class, Castiel almost turned to run.

“Cas!” Dean shouted from halfway across the hall.  He looked frustrated and exhausted as he made his way toward him, one hand on the back of his head like he was in pain.  Dean was standing in front of him before Castiel could open his mouth to speak.   “Hey,” Dean said, his eyes settling on lips and then trailing down to his neck, and Castiel felt hot.  “About last night,” Dean started before Jo walked up behind him and clapped him on the shoulder.  Dean grimaced and glared back at her.

“What about last night?” Jo asked, smiling warmly, eyes darting between the both of them as they gaped at one another.  Castiel stared at him, trying to gauge his state of mind, but he couldn’t.

“Nothing, just forget about it,” Castiel said evenly, albeit a bit pinched, despite the pulse in his thumbs and his ears making his skin twitch.  He held himself taut to compensate.  He was surprised by the confused stare Dean gave him, his mouth opening and closing like he wanted to say something.  “Please,” Castiel added. He stared back at Dean, hoping he would understand.

“Cas -” Dean started, thinking better of it before pressing his lips together again.

“What’s going on?  Did something happen?” Jo asked seriously, reaching a hand out to grasp Castiel’s wrist.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said as the bell rang, his heart plummeting as Dean frowned.  “I have to go.”  Dean nodded at him slowly, Jo linking her arm with his to pull him away.

“I’m skipping my last class.  Head’s killing me,” Dean said, his voice stilted, no longer making eye contact with him.

“You’re such a baby,” Jo teased.  “I had fun last night, Cas.  You should come see us again sometime,” she said, turning to him with a hopeful look in her eyes.

“Of course,” Castiel responded, warming despite his worry over Dean. 

She smiled at him and gave his wrist another small squeeze before turning on her heel and dragging Dean along with her.  He followed them with his eyes until they rounded the corner.  Dean didn’t seem like he was about to end their friendship, and that managed to settle Castiel down somewhat, but that didn’t mean he was okay with what had happened.  They would have to talk eventually, but for now he just hoped it would be enough. 

\--

Before Cas had followed Dean into his bedroom the night before, he had tried to comfort Sam.  A familiar hand on his shoulder, nothing but a focused concern in his eyes.  Sam had brushed him away and asked to be left alone, and Cas had obliged, a frown creased between his eyebrows.

Sam wasn’t a danger to himself, not in any physical sense, but his skin had been crawling with need and disgust and he felt like anyone who got too close would be devoured by it as well.  He could still feel it now, a craving that needled just under his skin.  He scratched idly at the inside of his elbow through his jacket, the skin rising in tiny bumps at the contact.  It never got any better.  Time meant nothing, and that scared him more than anything; the thought that no matter how long it had been since his last hit, he would never stop needing the next one. 

He took the bus to school on Thursday morning.  To say that he was giving Dean ‘room to breathe’ would be an understatement. Sam was all out avoiding his brother.  For the short time they had been within speaking distance, they had maneuvered around one another as if there were navigating a sea of landmines.  Sam had finally relented and told Dean he wanted to get to school early, and before Dean could protest he was out the door into the chill air, hands gripping the rough straps hanging off his backpack. 

 _Fuck up,_ he thought bitterly _._  

If by some slim chance Dean had even come to school, Sam didn’t run into him in the halls, and he moved from class to class in a dull haze.  It wasn’t until lunch that someone finally attempted to break through it.

“Hey, Sam?  Sam!”

He looked up, and Jess was leaning over the table, her weight centered on the spot where her slender hands were braced against it. “Hey,” Sam mumbled, trying to avoid her eyes. 

“You okay?” Jess asked, sliding onto the bench across from him, pulling one knee to her chin, canvas sneaker tucked up under her leg.  Her hair fell in messy waves over her shoulders as she knit her fingers together.  Sam stared at her for a few moments, trying desperately to understand why she was there.

Sam swallowed the urge to spill everything, to just say the words, because it might actually scare her off.  Convince her that her concern was misplaced. 

His gut twisted at the thought of Cas, his only real friend, who’d forgiven him, and how he’d let him down.  And his brother, who needed him to be better, who tried to damnedest to take care of the both of them in the absence of their father.  It killed him in ways he couldn’t even put into words.  Jess kept playing the white knight but Sam was sure it would fall away if she really knew the person she was trying to help.    

 “I’m fine,” he lied.  He didn’t need to vent, this wasn’t something he could just _talk_ through.

“You sure?” she pressed.

“Look, not that I don’t appreciate the concern, but… why do you care?” asked Sam, the words coming out harsher than he meant them to.  He didn’t know why she should, anyway.  Aside from a few in-class study sessions and a short breakfast where they had played at small talk, they barely knew each other.  If they did know each other, he was convinced she would be just as disgusted with him as he was.  “I don’t want your pity.  I don’t need you to pretend to care just because no one else will.”  He looked back up at her, and he expected to see surprise, hurt, anger.  Anything but the tiny amused smirk playing at the edges of her full lips. 

Sam wished he could just ignore the way his heart sped up.

“First off, wow, that’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me since we met.  Second, I’m not pretending at anything.”  Sam raised his eyebrow, and she laughed.  “Yeah, I might be a little bit of a bleeding heart.  That doesn’t mean I’m not interested.  Interested in _you_ , not the rumors going around.”

“Right, like you aren’t dying to find out how much of a freak Sam Winchester really is,” he responded, trying his best to toe the fine line between playful banter and flat out antagonism.  In his current mood it was a bit more difficult than usual.

“I meant what I said the first day, I don’t care about that.  Interest, though.  Reaching out.  That’s how you make friends, Sam.  You seem adamant not to do it yourself and I just figured, what’s the harm?”  Sam stared at her as she ran her fingers through her hair, knuckles catching on little knots as she worked her way down. 

“You know they have hairbrushes for that,” Sam smiled, watching her work.  She rolled her eyes and dug her chin into her knee, pulling against a particularly stubborn tangle.

“I’m asking if you’re okay, because you usually read during lunch, but you’re not today.  You’re sitting here alone, staring at your food like it’s insulted you, and to be honest it’s kind of worrying.  Just try me, nothing you can say is gunna freak me out.  I’ve probably heard worse.”  Sam doubted that.

“You really want to sit here and listen to me instead of spending time with your friends?” he offered her an out, hoping feebly that she might accept it and he wouldn’t have to do this.  Open up to her, let her nudge her way in.  He realized with a pang that he might have already done so.

“What, them?” She nodded toward her regular table, her friends bunched up and laughing amongst themselves.  “I think they’ll be okay without me for a little while,” she smirked.  Sam took a deep breath and leaned back on the bench, fidgeting for a moment with the hem of his shirt under the table. 

“Fine.”  Sam took a deep breath, and he could feel her eyes on him, rapt and focused.  “You’ve heard the rumors.  That I’m a junkie?  Well that… that’s true.” He looked up at her, trying to gauge her reaction, but she just stared at him, big brown eyes fixated on his.  “I’ve been clean for a while, but last night someone was willing to give some to me, and if it hadn’t been for my brother and his… and our friend, I might have… I mean.  I fucked up, but if they hadn’t been there I might have really, really fucked up.” Jess’ mouth turned in a small frown, her hands out of her hair and resting under her chin.  “To be honest I don’t have any idea where to even begin to fix things with Dean.”

“Dean is your brother?” she asked, completely forgoing any personal reaction to the information.  Sam was mildly grateful for that, but he still wondered what was going on in her head.  She seemed to take it all in stride. 

“Yeah,” he answered simply.

“Is he angry?”

“I think it’s more complicated than that.  He never just gets angry.  I know I’ve let him down... in a big way.  And that makes it so much harder than if he was just pissed, because I don’t know… what to say.  I don’t know if there’s anything I _can_ say.”  Jess stared at table for a moment, contemplating.

“Sometimes the right words… sometimes they just don’t exist.  That shouldn’t keep you from trying,” she finally offered.

“Talking to my brother isn’t always a walk in the park,” said Sam, watching Jess’ hands as she started playing with her hair again.  “But yeah, you’re right.”  Jess smiled at that, and something warm swelled in the pit of Sam’s stomach.  He watched as her fingers caught on another tangle, and he laughed out loud.  She shot him a look as he pressed his lips together.  “Come over here, let me help,” he said, feeling nervous the moment the words were out of his mouth.  He had no idea what he was doing.

Jess let out a small huff of air, pushing herself up off the seat and walking around to his side.  She sat facing away from him, and he buried his hands gingerly in her mess of blonde waves, slowing pulling through them as she leaned absently into his touch.  “Where are your parents in all this?” she asked.

“They’re not around anymore.  Lost my mom before I was old enough to remember her, and Dean’s been there more for me than my Dad’s ever been,” Sam explained, feeling a small well of affection for his brother, and another wave of guilt to accompany it.  He frowned as he worked his fingers through a small tangle, picking it apart with focused precision.

“That sounds like a lot of pressure,” she said. 

Before Sam could respond with anything but a small nod, Jess turned around, her face uncomfortably close to his, and she looked him up and down carefully.  Sam sucked in a small breath. 

There were parts of her that reminded him of Ruby.  The way she just insinuated herself into his life like it was where she belonged, knees brushing his under the table.  Unlike Ruby, though, she was malleable instead of forceful, and he found himself pushing back, wanting to find all the ways they could fit together. 

“I’m not making it any easier on him,” Sam said quietly, his fingers still pinched around a small lock of golden hair.  She smiled and shrugged as he let it fall back over her shoulder. 

“You’ll figure it out,” she said, scooting backwards a little to give them both a more reasonable amount of breathing room.  “If he hasn’t given up on you yet, I doubt this will be the thing that pushes him over the edge.”  Sam nodded slowly, and she smiled, grabbing a tater tot off his plate of cooling cafeteria food.  “You should eat. You’re too tall to be skipping meals.”  Sam rolled his eyes as she laughed around her bite, trying desperately not to lose himself in the sound. 

 

 

When Sam got on the bus to go home later that day, he did so with his cell phone clutched in his hands, a small buzz letting him know that Jess had answered his last text message.  The vibration against his palm gave him some small measure of strength to do what he needed to do, trying to drown out the worry that ate away at his stomach. 

Dean might be hell bent on shoving all this shit between them into a dark corner to fester, but that wasn’t how Sam dealt with things.  It wasn’t dealing at all.  He couldn’t keep backing down just because he felt like he didn’t deserve the right to fight his brother on it.

When he walked into his house, it was quiet, but the Impala was out front and Dean didn’t walk anywhere if he could avoid it, so Sam started to look.  When he made his way into the living room he found his brother splayed out against the couch, his arms folded over his face like he was protecting himself.  Sam cleared his throat, and Dean jumped, hands gripping the cushions of the couch as he sat forward.

“Sam! Son of a… you scared me,” Dean mumbled, rubbing his face over with his hands.

“Dean, we have to talk,” Sam said, purposefully phrasing it as a command and not a request.  Dean looked up at him, frowning.  Sam opened his mouth to speak again, but Dean stood up and turned his back on him, heading toward the kitchen.  “ _Dean,_ ” he called after his brother.

“You hungry?” Dean asked, running his hand through his hair as he continued toward the worn old fridge.  Sam followed, feeling the frustration and nervous energy building up the longer they let this stretch out between them.

“No,” Sam said, barely managing not to throw it back at his brother with venom.  “Dean, come on -” Sam jumped when Dean brought his hand down against the kitchen counter.

“Sam, damn it,” Dean snapped, holding himself like there was a weight tied to his shoulder blades, halfway between collapsing and readying himself for a fight. “Just, please, tell me… would you have really done it?”  Dean didn’t turn around, but Sam watched as his shoulders slowly slumped in resignation, thumbing the hard edge of the countertop.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.  Dean’s fingers were shaking minutely as he tried to breathe the tension out of his muscles.  “I don’t want to, though,” he added, voice small and resigned.

“That’s something,” Dean said, turning to look Sam up and down, his brow furrowed.  “What do I do, Sammy?  You gotta tell me, ‘cause I’m hittin’ a wall here.  If a year isn’t enough to kick the damn habit, what about two?  Or five?”  His eyes were wild, less anger and more fear, and Sam could hear the unspoken words.  _How long till I can stop worrying about you?  How long till I know for sure I won’t lose you to this?_

“I don’t know, Dean.  But I swear I’m trying.” Sam said, voice a touch too pleading as he reached up to scratch at the inside of his elbow.

“I know, man.  Believe me, I know you’re tryin’,” Dean said, trying to pull himself upright, to look like he believed the words that were coming out of his own mouth.  “Look.  We’ll get through this.  Together.  Like we always have,” he said, and Sam nodded.  He could feel the exhaustion coming off Dean in waves, the kind of tired you get when you sleep too much and your body just craves more because that’s all it knows, but Dean _hadn’t given up on him_.  It wasn’t everything they needed, it wasn’t a solution, but it was a start.

\--

Dean sat on the couch, flipping his cell phone open and closed. The television was on, some show Dean didn't know or care about. He was preoccupied, anyway.

Aside from their awkward almost-conversation in the school hall, Cas hadn’t mentioned the kiss since that night.  Not in his short, sporadic text messages or the few times they’d brushed past each other since, sending sparks of heat through Dean that he tried, ineffectively, to ignore.  Cas also hadn’t mentioned the fact that a minute or so into the kiss he’d needed to pull away from Dean, because he was ‘drunk’ and Cas ‘shouldn’t be taking advantage of him’ and Dean thought, really, that was hilarious, because he was the one leaving teeth marks along Cas’ collarbone and trailing his hands up under Cas’ perfectly ironed dress shirt. 

The last thing Dean remembered clearly after that was Cas pulling him up onto the bed, Dean’s hands fumbling uselessly at the hem of his shirt.  The whiskey had hit him like a goddamn truck, and he had been grasping at Cas to center him again. 

Cas had just been stiff, and diplomatic, and for once trying to preserve some pretense at personal space between them, which fucking bothered Dean to be completely honest.  By the time he had woken up the next morning Cas was gone and, again, it wasn’t like it was surprising at that point, but after what had happened he kind of really fuckin’ wished, for once, it could have been different.

He squashed those thoughts, because he wasn’t a sap, and he wasn’t pining over Cas.  That wasn’t what this was.

Dean's phone buzzed in his palm, and he flipped it open again. One new text.

_I'll be there soon._

Dean smirked, something settling down inside him. 

“Cas’ comin’ over,” Dean mumbled from his spot on the couch as Sam turned into the room. 

"Finally," Sam smiled, plopping down next to him. "Got used to him being here every night."

"Yeah well he's been avoiding trouble with his dick brothers so who can blame him," Dean said, closing his eyes and leaning back.

"That's very mature of you, Dean," Sam chided, a grin obvious in his voice. Sassy little fucker. Dean frowned and threw a fist out to his right, Sam catching it in his palm. "No, seriously."

"Fuck you," Dean said, smiling and dropping his fist back to the couch. 

They had been trying, the past couple of days, to get better.  Despite what had happened, Sam had been in a particularly good mood, and that made it easier.  He’d also been spending a hell of a lot of time in his room on the phone and Dean suspected a girl might be involved. 

The more pessimistic corners of his mind drifted to what ifs about Sam sneaking around again, and memories of the pale, half clothed, shaking figure of his brother on the concrete outside their old home, skin striped with ugly red burns and tears streaming down his face. Dean felt bile rise in his throat, and he knew it was just the fear, and that Sam was trying and he wouldn’t purposefully seek that out again.  He wasn’t an idiot, and despite the near relapse he _was_ getting better.  This girl could be really good for him.  As long as she wasn’t another Ruby.

Sam leaned over him, reaching for the remote.  Dean fought with him over it for a good five minutes before he gave up, Sam smirking victoriously and turning to the history channel.   Dean rolled his eyes and tried to pretend to be disinterested, but they were kind of talking about how aliens might have built the pyramids and there was literally nothing that wasn’t hilarious about that. 

Dean almost forgot about how nervous he was until he heard the front door open and shut, and Dean sat forward as Sam pushed himself off the couch, turning with a smile to greet Cas. 

He kept his eyes resolutely on the screen until he felt Cas slide in beside him, Sam fitting himself in on the other end of the couch.  Dean could feel the warmth radiating off his arm, just inches away from his own.  His fingers twitched involuntarily as he stared forward.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, voice rough and pinched like he wasn’t sure he should be talking at all.

“Hey Cas,” Dean smiled, nudging him reassuringly with his elbow.  Cas seemed to relax at the gesture, and Dean felt a small ball of nervous energy build up in his chest at the contact.  All he wanted was to touch him again, but instead he pulled back, trying to ignore the inches of empty air that stretched between them.

The little touches kept happening, elbows bumping awkwardly every time one of the readjusted, and it was quite honestly driving him fucking crazy.  They couldn’t really talk because Sam was around, and so there was just this frustrated energy between them that hyper focused into every little touch of their shoulders, or knees, or hands.  Dean wanted to touch him anyway.  He hated that there had to be any space between them at all. 

He wanted Cas’ hands on him again. There was something intoxicating about the way Cas had moved that night when he'd relaxed against him, the way he could be so tentative while still taking control.  Dean felt heat creeping up his neck and he bit the inside of his lip. 

Cas was stiff, and Dean couldn’t tell if it was because he was still convinced he’d done something wrong, or if he was just feeling the same maddening want that Dean was, or if it was both.  Either way he didn’t have any idea how to help, so he just bickered with Sam over what they were going to watch next like nothing was wrong.  Eventually they just decided to pop in a movie because they were still working through the ever expanding list of films Cas hadn’t seen but sorely needed to.  Tonight was a Tarantino night, and Sam pulled out _Pulp Fiction_ with an excited grin on his face.

“This is a good one, Cas.  Fucking classic,” Dean said, leaning forward to get a better view of the television. 

His left hand ended up settling in so close to Cas’ knee that he could feel the small fibers of his pants brushing against the back of his fingers.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cas glance downward, his own hands bunching into fists for a split second before relaxing again.  Dean swallowed and reached out with one finger, grazing the side of his knee, Cas tensing before moving almost imperceptibly into the touch. 

Before Dean could do more than drag his fingers slowly down the length of his leg, Sam turned away from the television, having switched the input to the old DVD player, and the opening sequence for the movie started up.  Dean pulled his hand away again.

Sam finally settled back onto the couch just as Pumpkin and Honey Bunny began discussing the lucrative possibilities of sticking up a diner and Dean felt himself mouthing the script off below his breath.  He only stopped when he felt two tentative and chilled fingertips against the small of his back, just where his t-shirt was riding up above his belt.  He turned to look back at Cas, who was staring at him with his eyes wide.

“ _Any of you fucking pricks move, and I'll execute every motherfucking last one of ya!_ ”

Dean ignored the loud, fevered music that started up as the opening credits flashed across the screen to stare back at Cas, chasing Cas’ hand until his whole palm was up against his back.  Dean’s skin burned at the contact, Cas tentatively beginning to trace lines against his spine.  Once Jules and Vincent were on the screen, Dean pried his eyes away from Cas, his lips, his neck. 

He couldn’t just jump him in the living room right next to Sam, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to.

It wasn’t too much longer before Sam’s phone started buzzing, and he gave Cas and Dean a little conciliatory smile before disappearing into the darkened hallway. Dean’s heart started thrumming in his ears.  When Dean heard Sam’s bedroom door shut, Cas’ hand fell away from his back, and he turned to look at him.  Cas’ lips were parted, and Dean’s eyes traced them hungrily.

“I’m sorry.  About the other night.  I was out of line,” Cas said, voice low and serious, his hands bunching into fists.

“The hell are you talking about?” Dean asked, voice a little husky, cheeks warm. "You were the one who pulled away from me, remember?"

“You were upset, and drunk, and I took advantage,” Cas explained, eyes darting everywhere but back to Dean’s, which was weird because Cas was never so… timid.  He always kind of just _looked_ and Dean was the one who was left feeling exposed. 

Dean didn’t know how to explain how wrong he was, he just didn’t think he had the equipment, and that frustrated the hell out of him.  Still, there was a flush creeping up Cas’ neck and Dean’s skin burned where Cas’ hand had been.  The flood gates were already cracked, so why the hell not blow a hole in that mother once and for all.  Dean didn’t think about it, he just reached out with both his hands and cupped Cas’ face, leaning forward to press their lips together. 

For a moment he thought he might have made a mistake, but he kept his grip as gentle as he could, thumbs pressed to his warm cheeks, parting his lips slightly to let Cas know that it was okay to take it if he wanted, but it was just as okay to push him away.  Dean hoped desperately for the former, that Cas would just lean in and settle the coiling anxiety in his stomach.  The heat was boiling up and threatening to spill out of his lungs and into Cas’. 

He just needed him to fucking kiss him back. 

When he finally did, when Cas finally relaxed and let his lips wrap hungrily around Dean’s, he couldn’t suppress a low groan.

They kissed slowly at first, little nips and tugs that made Dean's chest ache, but Cas began to unwind, pulling him cluster, arching into the touch. What Cas lacked in finesse, he made up for in enthusiasm, and Dean was perfectly happy to let him explore, to poke and prod with his tongue against his swollen lips and the skin of his teeth.  Dean opened up for him, relaxing into small, experimental bites centered around his lower lip, groaning a little when Cas did something he particularly liked with his hands.  And fuck were his hands curious, fingertips trailing down his neck and across his collar bone, stopping only to press against his pulse, tongue darting in and out of his mouth in time with the frantic beating of his heart. 

It wasn’t long before his own hands found their way under Cas’ button up, his thumbs pressed up against Cas’ hipbones, and fuck it was _hot_ the way he rocked into the touch like he was desperate for it. 

Before Dean knew what was happening Cas climbed onto his lap, straddling his hips and pressing himself to Dean’s chest as he ran his long fingers through Dean’s short hair.  Dean circled his arms around him, nipped at his neck, dragged a hand down toward his hip.  Cas barely made any noise at all but he was near panting into Dean’s mouth as his hips worked up a steady rolling motion, and Dean saw light bloom behind his eyelids when he felt Cas’ dick through his pants, rutting hard against him through layers of fabric.

“Cas,” Dean mumbled against his mouth, a small string of spit hanging off Cas’ pink, swollen lips as he pulled away.  He was panting a little, baby blues wide and bright.  _Fuck._   He was coming undone and Dean had to force himself not to just pull him back and forget whatever stupid shit he was about to say.  “Cas, hold on man.” So much for that.

“What?” Cas asked, a little irritably, a frown playing across his face.  Dean raised his hand away from Cas’ hip to run his fingers through his short, messy, dark brown hair.  Cas parted his lips and rolled his hips forward. Dean bit his lip almost painfully.

“Fuck Cas,” he breathed, feeling his own dick straining against his pants, sending small sparks of electricity through his body with every small movement.  “Just hold on a sec, okay?  No need to rush,” Dean wanted to kick himself for saying it, because he was fucking ready to go, but Cas was obviously new at this and Dean didn’t know how he felt about being anyone’s first, and certainly not this quickly.  If that was where this was going, anyway.  Dean was pretty sure that’s where this was going.  The persistent press of Cas’ cock against his stomach kind of gave him that impression.

“Why?” Cas asked, sitting back on Dean’s lap, his hands still buried in his hair.

“Have you done this before?” Dean asked.

“No, but who cares?” Cas answered, running a thumb across Dean’s cheekbone and down under his jaw, his eyes busy roaming over what Dean figured were probably every fucking one of his freckles.  “I’m not a delicate flower, Dean,” Cas continued seriously.  Dean laughed and leaned forward to nip playfully at Cas’ jawline, the other man’s breath catching in his throat.

“Maybe I am,” Dean said, a little too truthfully.  He wasn’t trying to be romantic, that was the last thing he wanted, but he’d always been more invested in making sure the other person was as comfortable as possible, wanting to see them come undone, being the one to put them back together.  He wanted to cater to them, make sure they got what they needed and then he could as well.  It was _important_ to him, in a way he really couldn’t rationalize.  That meant taking his time right now.  Cas might be ready to push this into third gear, but Dean wasn’t.

He did really, really want to kiss him again.

Dean leaned forward and laid a small kiss just under Cas’ ear into his hair, and Cas shuddered so violently Dean was worried for a moment he’d fucked something up but then Cas was pulling him closer, tipping his head to the side to give Dean better access.  “Alright,” Cas breathed.  “We can do this your way.  For now.” 

Dean shuddered at the implication in Cas’ tone, like he could unravel Dean with a goddamn word.

Dean continued laying small kisses down Cas’ neck as he moved one hand to grip up under Cas’ knee, the other arm circled around his back, bracing himself to stand.  As he pushed up, Cas wrapped his legs around his waist, their hips slotting together.  Dean was fucking throbbing with want, cock hard against Cas’ leg, but he kept his kisses light as Cas buried his face in his hair.

Together they moved to Dean’s bedroom, leaving the movie and the living room behind them.

\--

Castiel had experienced attraction before, but not like this.  That had been dull and uncomplicated, aesthetic, but this was vivid and tactile and tangible.  Castiel wanted more.  It was all he could think about, all he could process.  He wanted more Dean, wanted more hands on him, wanted more friction.  He had never felt like this, it was fire in his gut and it made him feel at once woozy and hyper alert, every tiny touch leaving him needing and aching. 

He had no idea how to process everything. 

He just wanted to touch Dean, to show him with his hands and his mouth all the ways he could help, show him what he had to give, but Dean insisted on holding back, going slow. 

Dean carried him to the bedroom, his lips pressed up against his hairline in a way that made Castiel shiver. Before heading to the bed, Dean stopped to shove a cassette into the boombox on his dresser, a frantic guitar riff that caused Castiel to tense, but Dean turned the sound lower and kissed his neck, and Castiel relaxed again.  Dean climbed onto the bed, walking forward on his knees until Castiel felt his back pressed against the headboard, legs still slung over Dean’s hips.  He thrust forward involuntarily, raising his eyes to meet Dean big, heavy-lidded green ones, pupils blown wide as he looked Castiel up and down.  He was panting through his parted lips, beautiful and undone. 

Castiel never wanted to stop looking at him.

“Dean,” Castiel murmured, not knowing what he was asking for, but needing it all the same.  Dean obliged, leaning forward to place a small kiss around his top lip, breath hot against his hypersensitive skin.  He brought his hands up to rest against Dean’s pulse, feeling a comfort in the frantic but uniform thrum beneath his fingers.

The higher energy music ended, giving way to a curious ballad that Castiel might have appreciated more if Dean wasn’t so busy enveloping _every part of him_.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Dean said, before deepening the kiss, and Castiel nodded lazily, opening himself up to it.  Dean’s hands rested at the nape of his neck and Castiel sucked in a breath as he caught Dean’s lip between his teeth.  He felt Dean smile as his hands dragged downward, over the buttons of his shirt until he stopped at the hem, thumbs nudging their way up under the pressed cloth.  Castiel’s breathing went ragged when he felt Dean’s fingers fumbling at his belt. 

Dean paused for a moment, as if to give Castiel time to reconsider, but Castiel didn’t need it.  He nudged his face toward Dean’s, eyes never leaving the planes of his cheekbones or the lilt of his eyes, noses brushing, his hips jutting forward against Dean’s palm. 

“ _This is the springtime of my loving – the second season I am to know, You are the sunlight in my growing – so little warmth I’ve felt before._ ”

Castiel thought that if Dean sounded like a song, it would be this song.

Dean’s fingers worked quickly, opening his fly and inching his fingers in beneath it, palming his cock through his boxer briefs.  A surge of heat went through him, and he found himself holding his breath, his lips unmoving against Dean’s.

“Damn it, Dean.  More,” Castiel pleaded, thrusting his hips feebly forward into Dean’s light touches.  Dean obliged, dragging his hand back up to the elastic waistband, his fingers nudging up under it to pull them down, and Castiel gasped when his dick, sensitive and throbbing, hit the open air.  Dean pulled back to admire him for a moment, and Castiel matched his gaze, trying and failing not to be completely overwhelmed by him. 

Before he knew what was happening, Dean wrapped his hand around his cock, and Castiel couldn’t think anymore.

\--

“ _Speak to me only with your eyes.  It is to you I give this tune._ ”  

Dean moved along with the music, his lips ghosting against the skin of Castiel’s neck as he mouthed the lyrics.  Zeppelin was goddamn soulful, and he felt it in his bones when he touched Cas, feeling his breath against his cheek.  It was slow and sultry and just a little off, a little frantic, and a little sad. Completely fucking perfect. 

Cas didn’t make a lot of noise.  Dean had been with a lot of people, and girls, especially, liked to play up the noises.  He liked it, loved it in fact, but what Cas was doing, a complete lack of theatrics, it was somehow better.  Way better.  It was, if he was being completely honest, the hottest thing he’d ever seen. 

Cas didn’t moan, but he was gasping for air like he was starving for it.  He’d hold his breath when Dean sped up, pant it out once he couldn’t take it anymore.  His breath would rattle as his limbs shook, like he couldn’t fully process the sensation.  He kept his muscles tight, and he’d thrust into Dean’s hand from time to time, but he spent so much energy trying not to fall apart he ended up just sitting there against the headboard, shaking, his eyes wide and bright, his lips slick and parted.  Dean watched as the muscles in his arms tightened and loosened as his stroked him, his thumb tracing the head of his cock, slick with precum. 

Dean rocked his own hips forward, his dick hard and throbbing against his jeans.  “Fuck, Cas,” he murmured, pumping Cas' cock in his fist while he watched him suck in another ragged breath.  Cas was staring at him, the way he always did, but it was different now.  His eyes never left him, and Dean found himself focusing on Cas’ lips, his shoulders, his hips, anything but that stare.  It was intimate in a way he really wasn’t comfortable with, but he couldn’t stop himself.  He wanted Cas.  He’d never wanted anyone more. 

Right then, he wanted him gasping.

“ _This is the wonder of devotion – I see the torch we all must hold.  This is the mystery of the quotient – Upon us all a little rain must fall._ ”

Cas reached out and grabbed at the collar of his shirt, and Dean tightened his hand around Cas’ cock, making long, languid strokes that had Cas panting; tiny, almost inaudible whines  when his fist met the base.  “Dean,” he rasped, his voice sending a shockwave of heat straight to Dean’s throbbing cock.  “Dean, please.”  The hand that was gripping his collar pulled Dean forward, their foreheads knocking together, and he could feel Cas’ breath against his lips.  Dean gripped him tight, moving at a frantic pace, and Cas shoved his mouth against Dean’s, teeth dragging across the tender skin.

When he finally came, Cas was _loud_.

\--

Castiel fisted his hands into Dean’s shirt and pulled him forward, the aftershocks still wracking his body as he crushed their lips together.  He felt himself coming down, fatigue seeping into his muscles, his eyes finally lilting shut as he felt Dean’s lips open for him, their breath mingling together before he completely fell apart.  Dean muttered praises against his lips as he stroked his softening cock, spent and tender.

"So good, Cas. Perfect."

Cas' head fell back against the wooden headboard, and Dean pulled away, leaning over the edge of his bed to grab a discarded plain white undershirt, using it to clean the warm come from his hands and Castiel’s shirt.  When he was done, Dean leaned forward again, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist and burying his face in the crook of his neck. 

“I thought you were straight,” Castiel said, placing a kiss against Dean’s temple.  He felt Dean move his hips forward weakly, his dick hard as it brushed against Castiel’s leg.

“Obviously not,” Dean answered, his voice a little ragged.

“But, you talk about past girlfriends…” _and Anna._   He couldn’t say it, but Castiel was thinking of Anna.  He had to bite down the well of overpowering anxiety that rose in him like unfriendly hands around his throat.  For a moment he was stiff, but Dean held him tighter, and it ebbed away.

“Can’t I like both?” Dean answered, gasping a little as Castiel lowered his hand between them to drag his fingers across Dean’s cock.  Castiel was worn, but he didn’t want to stop touching, and Dean was _aching_ to be touched.

“Of course.  You’ve just never mentioned any interest in men,” Castiel said, applying more pressure as Dean rocked into his palm.

“Just cause I’ve accepted it doesn’t mean I think anyone else will.  Plus, I’ve been interested before, didn’t,”  Dean took a sharp breath as Castiel palmed him, fingers inching lower to where his balls were constricted beneath the seam of his pants.  “ _Fuck_ , it didn’t end well,” Dean breathed, his hands gripping at Castiel’s shirt.  Castiel’s heart twisted painfully at that, and he buried his nose in Dean’s hair. 

Dean thrust against him again, and Castiel rubbed back, knuckle tracing the outline of the head until Dean practically whined.

“What do you mean, didn’t end well?” Castiel asked, because he had to know, even though his own dick was already starting to twitch with interest, responding to the growingly persistent rutting of Dean’s hips and the little noises he made in the back of his throat.  _And the fact that he’s Dean_ , Castiel thought. Dean, who was gentle, and brash, and caring, and excited by old cars and old rock and roll and old leather jackets.  Dean, who was beautiful in every way that mattered, and in every way that didn’t, and that was enough. 

It was more than enough.  It was everything.

“Guy wasn’t gay, turns out.  I don’t,” Dean gasped again as Castiel reached around to the small of his back, his fingers dipping just below the belt. “Cas I can’t talk about this right now, not while you’re -” and Dean thrust his hips forward.  “Son of a _bitch_ , not while you’re doing _that_.”  Castiel smirked and pulled both his hands away, placing them on either side of Dean’s face to lift it up, kissing him gently on the mouth.  Dean groaned into the kiss, and soon he had Castiel pinned against the headboard, their hips slotted together, both of them hard and aching for pressure. 

They came, grasping at each other, their hips moving in tandem as they rode out the aftershock.  Dean had his teeth latched around Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel had his lips buried in Dean’s hair, and for a moment, they were both completely, and utterly, calm.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for body dysphoria

Sam knew the kinds of shows to stay away from to keep himself from anything that might trigger relapse, or send him spiraling into a bad headspace that he would have trouble pulling himself back from.  He had been careful enough, he thought, but it turned out that Sam didn’t remember as much of the plot to the Tarintino film as he thought he had, and when they got to the scene where Vega was about to shoot up Sam felt a huge ball of panic lodge itself in his throat. 

He’d texted Jess to call him so he could leave without causing a scene, and luckily she had obliged him quickly.  Dean had seemed distracted anyway, and Sam doubted his absence would bother his brother much.

“ _You feeling any better?_ ” Jess asked after a small silence, Sam trying to focus back in on her and not the need that was threatening to drive him crazy. 

He didn’t need it, he reminded himself, he _really_ didn’t.  Sam had tried to think back on how horrible coming down was, the sick taste of bile as his body writhed against a bed that just wouldn’t get comfortable.  The memory of fire licking at his legs, so tactile in the maddening haze of withdrawal that he could still feel it whenever he shut his eyes, trying to ignore the way his body was turning on him.

Sam bit his tongue, tasting copper as he shuddered back to reality.  Those thoughts weren’t better, they just made him want to escape again.  That was worse than the simple reminder of the hum of desire always niggling at the back of his skull.  He ignored it every stupid, horrible day and he could ignore it now. 

“ _Sam?  Did you hear me?_ ” Jess asked him, helping to tether him back to the present.

“Yeah, yeah I feel a little better,” he answered, trying to smile so she could hear it in his voice.  It wasn’t a complete lie.  He was feeling _better_. Just not _good_.  Sam ran his thumb over the faded needle marks on the inside of his arm, swallowing the acid rising in the back of his throat, his jaw clenched so tight it was starting to ache.  “Thanks for calling.”

“ _No problem.  Do you need to get back now?_ ” Jess asked, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“Yeah, probably.  Cas has been having trouble getting over here recently, it’s nice to get to hang out.” 

" _I get it,_ " she said kindly. Sam clenched his fist as he pushed himself off the bed, focusing on the sound of Jess’ voice rather than the itch in the hollow of his elbow. 

“Don’t go just yet I want to make sure that part of the movie is over before I go barreling back in.  I don’t remember how long it lasts.”

“ _Yeah, sure, no problem._ ”

Sam left his room and walked back down the hall, cell still against his ear, to find the movie still playing to an empty room, the couch a little worse for wear than it had been when he’d left. 

“They’re not here.  Those assholes,” Sam told her, trying to grin a little as his face rejected the gesture. 

Sam turned for a moment into the kitchen and headed for the freezer.  Sometimes Dean left malt balls in there and he needed something sweet.  Sugar in his bloodstream seemed to help calm his body down when handling the worst of the addiction.  Thankfully, there was half a bag shoved behind the ice box, and Sam grabbed a handful before he turned back around and headed to Dean’s room. 

When he got there, he found the door shut and locked, the muffled sound of music behind it.

“Uh,” Sam said, the gears in his head turning as he stared forward, popping one of the candies into his mouth.

“ _Sam?_ ”

“They’re in Dean’s room.  The door’s locked,” Sam told Jess, his back up against the wall next to the bedroom door.  He had the sneaking suspicion he should move away but he didn’t act on it. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Jess answered, followed by a small laugh before she took a deep breath to speak again.  “ _Sam, I have a serious question for you.  Don’t freak out, but do you think it might be possible that your brother and Cas might be -_ ”

“What, together?” Sam answered easily, his lips tugging up in a small smile.

“ _Oh.  Well, yeah_ ,” she said, bemused.

“Yeah.  Without a doubt,” Sam laughed, leaning his head back against the wall, half listening to the music leaking out from beneath Dean’s door.  It was Zeppelin, of course.  His brother seriously didn’t have any new moves. 

It wasn’t exactly a secret that Dean wasn’t as straight as he pretended to be, even though he liked to act as if Sam didn’t know.  Or maybe Dean really didn’t have a damn idea how much he was privy to, though Sam doubted even his brother would be able to pull off that level of flat out denial.

“ _Oh… OH!  So you knew?_ ” she asked, her tone more relaxed.

“Well, I kind of knew he liked Cas.  You don’t spend most of your childhood attached to someone’s hip and not realize when they’re into someone,” Sam explained, thinking back on all the weirdly pointed stares between his brother and Cas when they thought he wasn’t paying attention.  Or even when he was.  Sam wasn’t sure if they even realized they were doing it.  “And yeah I knew he wasn’t straight either, even if he likes to pretend otherwise.  I think… there was a thing with this guy, used to come around all the time.  Big guy, didn’t like him at first.  Kinda guy that usually picked on kids like me, you know?”

“ _What, towering, silent fellows like yourself?_ ” she noted sarcastically, like she couldn’t imagine it.

“I was kind of a pipsqueak back then, alright?  I was only like… what… twelve I think?  I turned twelve right after we moved here, so that’s gotta be right.  Anyway, I didn’t like him but Dean did, a lot.  I think his name was… something with a B… Brandon?  No, Benny, that’s right, he was on the football team or something.  Anyway, he ended up being a really good guy, turns out.”  Sam thought back to Benny in the kitchen, dripping sweat as he worked over the stove on the first home cooked meal he’d had in ages, Dean kicking back at the table laughing at some stupid joke he’d just told. 

“I think maybe something happened, though, because one night I came home from a friend’s place and Dean was plastered, I mean way more drunk than I’d ever seen him at that point.  He wasn’t crying but I could tell he had been, and all I remember was him slurring out some shit about a girl named Andrea and how he should have never ‘done that’, but he wouldn’t tell me what ‘that’ was.”

Sam tightened his jaw, because the next time he remembered Dean being that drunk was one night after the fire, before he’d been sentenced but after the hospital when they were still living out of that ratty old motel.  Their father had been out for the night, and Dean had somehow managed to figure out where he stashed the whiskey.  Sam had been scared Dean would actually drink himself to death, the way he’d been throwing it back like water, but every time he tried to talk to him, Dean would look at him with wide, empty, bloodshot eyes and all Sam could do was bite his lip, edging closer to the phone in case he had to call for help.

“Anyway, Benny didn’t come around after that.  At the end of the year he moved back to Louisiana, to be with some girl.  Andrea, I am going to assume.  He came by to say goodbye, at least.  Dean dated a lot after that, I think it was somewhere around 4 girls in a month.  I mean, my brother doesn’t really do relationships, but that was excessive even for him.”

“ _Rejection, then?_ ”

“Probably, yeah.  That’s what I’ve always assumed.  He’s never talked to me about it, I think he thinks I’d be upset about it or something.  Which is completely insane.”  Like he’d actually give a shit about that. 

Sam let out a sigh, lost for a moment in contemplation until he heard a loud thud along with what he _really, really fucking hoped_ wasn’t a drawn out moan.

“ _Uunf, fuck Cas_ ,” Dean’s voice sounded deep and ragged through the door, and Sam’s eyes went wide. 

“Oh my god,” Sam whispered.

“ _What?  What happened?_ ” Jess asked, halfway between concerned and excited.

“Oh my.  God,” Sam repeated, pacing quickly to his own room and slamming the door behind him.  No, no.  He didn’t give two shits who his brother dated or screwed but catching him in the act was never, ever, _ever_ going to be okay.  Sam felt a small shiver run down his spine.  “Jess… I should not have been standing outside that door.”

Jess erupted into a fit of laughter, and Sam finally managed a genuine smile because just the sound of her voice felt like electricity coursing through his veins.  After a moment the giggles subsided, and she finally spoke to him, her voice still tinged with delight.  “ _I- I’m so sorry.  That’s horrible I shouldn’t have laughed, but wow._ ”

“It’s okay.  I’d laugh too,” Sam grinned, the shock receding as quickly as it’d come.

“ _Oh okay, excellent, I’m so relieved_ ,” she said, laughing again.  “ _By the way, and I know this is a massive change of subject, but are you going with anyone to the winter dance?  You don’t have to if you don’t want, I just… I thought it would be fun._ ”  Sam blanched, his heart throbbing in his throat. 

Was Jess asking him on a… date?  He didn’t know if he _should_ date, not with all the shit that was going on in his life.  He was sure he wasn’t in any sort of position to do that.  He was still… well… _needing_.  But it was Jess asking, and he really didn’t want to say no. 

“ _I wanted to ask earlier but I kind of couldn’t find a good opening._ ”

“You thought me being scarred for life after hearing my brother and his best friend possibly _hooking up_ was a good opening to ask me out?” Sam teased, clenching and unclenching his shaking fist.

“ _I’m not… shut up you jerk.  I’m not asking you out, it doesn’t have to be a big deal_.”  So they could keep it as friends.  Sam could do that.  “ _Just, yes or no._ ”  Sam licked his lips, steadying himself.

“Yeah, yes.  Sure.  That sounds fun.” 

Sam spent the rest of the evening working out plans and trying not to get too excited, and completely failing at it.  Not that he cared much.  Not if she was happy, too.

\--

Once he’d started kissing Cas, Dean found it difficult to stop. 

No, that wasn’t true.  It was fucking impossible to stop. 

He would find Cas between class and drag him to quiet corners, teeth grazing the soft skin of his neck, Cas’ hands twisted in his shirt and pulling him forward to place kisses over his eyes and at the edges of his mouth.  Dean was trying to keep things between them the same as before.  You know, buddies, friends, bros.  Whatever.  He didn’t do romance, and he didn’t do long term, and he didn’t want this to turn into something it wasn’t. 

He knew he was overcompensating, too, because whenever his hands or his lips weren’t busy exploring every exposed piece of skin he could reach he would keep Cas at an arm’s length, which was decidedly more than he afforded him before.  No ‘feelings’ talks, no hand holding, no schmoopy fucking text messages.  (Sexy text messages _maybe_ but only if he was especially horny, which he always was now that he’d suddenly been thrust back into physical intimacy.  And who could blame him?  He hadn’t gotten laid in almost seven months and he was eighteen years old for Christ’s sake.)

He tried to ignore the way Cas looked at him like he was the only thing in his goddamn universe, like Dean was some sort of rare specimen that Cas was obsessed with figuring out.  When Cas touched him it was uninhibited, curious, and sometimes just flat out _reverent_ , and even if Dean started to lose himself in it when they were pressed against one another, he didn’t let it bleed into the times they weren’t. 

He couldn’t.  He didn’t know what this was to Cas, but he knew his own limits.  He fucked up everything he touched, that was just the sad goddamn truth of it. 

Everyone left eventually, and if they didn’t, he would.

It was difficult because Cas was his friend, not some random person he’d fallen into bed with for the night.  He couldn’t just climb out the window and never call again.  Metaphorically speaking, anyway.  They hadn’t ‘gone to bed’, they were just stealing kisses from each other every chance they had alone, as if at any moment they might run out (to put it in the most lamely romantic manner possible).

In any case, any reservations he had about the situation didn’t stop him from tucking his fingers up under Cas’ belt, his thigh between Cas’ legs as the other man rutted against him, breath ragged along the bridge of Dean’s nose. 

“Cas, fuck, calm down we have class soon,” Dean breathed against his jaw, his throat, his shoulder. 

Cas made a small, deep throaty noise as he rolled those hips against Dean again, craning his neck to look at the clock on the wall opposite them.

“Fine,” Cas growled, turning his head back to neck Dean playfully before pushing him away.

“You coming over tonight?  Sam’s going to this school dance and I was thinking pizza, beer, and _Die Hard_.  What do you think?” Dean asked, frowning as he reached out to fix the collar of Cas’ shirt.  Cas was still breathing hard, his lips pink and parted as he leaned into Dean’s touch.

“I think I can manage that,” Cas smirked, staring at Dean’s hands as they pulled away from his rumpled white oxford. 

Dean knew it was a bad idea before he did it, but he leaned in and kissed Cas, light and closed mouthed.  Cas raised his hands and cupped Dean’s jaw gently as he returned the kiss, his thumbs tracing Dean’s cheekbones before Dean pulled away again, a little abruptly, face running hot. _Shit._

“Yeah alright.  See ya, man,” Dean said, backing up as the bell rang.  He almost didn’t hear Cas return the sentiment as he turned to strut toward his next class, hands gripping the bag that was slung over his shoulders. 

It had been a couple weeks since the first time they’d kissed, and this was the first time they’d be able to get any significant amount of time alone since then.  Which was good, he thought, because he was trying to keep this casual.  ‘Trying’ being the key goddamn word because that kiss had been anything but.  Dean spent the rest of the day wound up so tight he couldn’t even enjoy his lunch with Jo, which was usually the highlight of his day aside from his brief moments with Cas under the stairwell or tucked inside janitor’s closets.

He was starting to open up again, though.  (Not today, because today he was too antsy about the prospect of getting Cas alone, both eager and a little terrified.) Dean was letting himself be more animated around Jo’s friends, and raise his hand in class, which he was showing up for more often than not.  He was afraid to get complacent, but it was hard not to.  Not when Sam was happy, and Cas was relaxed, and he was… trying very hard not to fall into something he knew he wasn’t any good for. 

They could do this, Dean reminded himself, they could still be friends.  This didn’t _have_ to get complicated.

Cas came over right before the sun went down that night, nose and cheeks pink from the cold as he frowned at his hands. 

“Gloves would have been a good idea,” he mused to himself, opening and closing his fists to get the blood flowing again.

Dean watched him hungrily from the couch, smirking at the hoodie he had pulled over his white button up, the fabric too thick to fit properly underneath his tan coat.  Dean’s eyes trailed upward to Cas’ face, and his stomach twisted a bit to find his expression pinched, eyes bloodshot and tired.  Cas shot him a small grin, though, so he tried not to think much of it.

Sam was still busy getting ready when Cas slid onto the couch next to Dean, their legs brushing briefly as Cas fidgeted to get comfortable, ultimately ending up with his back straight like he was strapped to a board, both feet planted on the floor in front of him.  Dean almost leaned over right then, wanting to kiss the tension out of Cas’ muscles, but he didn’t want to risk Sam walking in on them, so he kept his distance. 

Eventually the two of them fell into easy conversation, Dean catching him up on Jo and Ellen, the cars he was working on at the garage with Bobby, intermittent jabs at Sam’s inability to get ready in any sort of timely manner.

“Hey Sammy, your makeup looks fine alright, there’s a fine line between classy and circus clown, and you’re tap-dancing dangerously close to it.”

“Hmm,” Cas reprimanded, trying to hide a smirk as he looked up from the television.

Sam walked into the room, tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves and delivering the most pointed bitchface at Dean that he could possibly manage.

“You look good, Sam,” Cas told him emphatically, a small glance at Dean as he did so. 

“Thank you, Cas,” Sam answered, glaring at Dean and running his massive hands through his combed and parted hair.  Dean just rolled his eyes and propped his feet up on the coffee table, trying not to laugh.

“Alright, down to business.  This girl you’re going out with, nice girl?” Dean asked, frowning as he looked his brother up and down.

“Yeah, Dean.  She’s nice,” Sam answered, a little exasperated.

“Alright, good,” Dean paused, searching his brother’s face for hesitation.  He would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried, he couldn’t help it when he remembered what had happened with Ruby.  “And, you know, wrap it before you tap it.” 

Sam blanched, and Dean could see Cas’ smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“No means no, Sam,” Cas added.

“Yeah, ask the cutie before you touch the booty,” Dean said, his grin wide.

“Where the hell did you hear that?” Sam asked, glaring at both of them in turn.

“Don’t change the subject, Sam.  Did you ask her father’s permission to court her?”  Dean asked, egging him on.

“I think it’s considered proper to bring the mother a gift as well,” Cas added. Dean looked over at Cas who was looking back at him with a serious expression, contemplating.  Dean pressed his lips together as they nodded at one other in agreement.  “A handmade quilt, perhaps, or a goat to win her family’s favor?” Cas smirked.

“I hate you both,” Sam growled, his lips twitching in what Dean knew was an almost smile.

\--

Sam had to hold his breath when he saw Jess. 

She was in a long blue dress, off the shoulder sleeves that brushed playfully against her pale skin.  Her blonde hair was done up, with curls falling and framing her face and neck in soft wisps.  She looked beautiful, the breath from her soft pink lips visible in the chill air. 

“Aren’t you cold?” Sam asked her as she walked toward him, her mother eyeing them both from the car. 

“A little.  I have a jacket in the car, but I think the dress looks better without it.  Do you like?” she asked, shivering a bit as she pressed against him, their arms linking together.  Sam’s heart was thudding so hard he was sure she could hear it.

“You look amazing,” he told her truthfully, trying to lend her his warmth as they walked back to the car together. 

Jess was a lot like her mother, it turned out, both in looks and in personality.  Sam found it easy to talk to both of them, Jess’ mother open and welcoming and not at all judgmental like other parents were prone to being when their daughters were going to be spending the evening with a boy they barely knew.  Not that he could blame them.  It was just a nice change of pace from what he had been expecting.  When her mother asked him about his parents and his home life, Jess had thankfully changed the subject before Sam had to go into too much detail, and he reminded himself to thank her for it later.

Once they pulled into the school parking lot, Sam shook Jess’ mother’s hand and thanked her for the ride, and together he and Jess stepped out and joined the crowd of people trying to funnel their way in through the double doors that led to the gym.

“I’ve never been to a school dance before,” he told her, and she squeezed his arm in response as they entered the dim, noisy, over decorated room.  There were a sea of people around them, and Sam thought he might feel claustrophobic, but he actually reveled in the feeling of bodies pressing in against him.  It felt like community, and that was something he appreciated. 

He looked around toward the crowd of faces, trying to see if he recognized anyone, knowing it wouldn’t really make a difference if he did.

“Sam!” he heard Jess’ voice over the thrum of dance music, and he turned to look down at her, smirking at him and cocking an eyebrow.  “Finally.”

“I can’t hear you all the way down there,” he teased, watching her roll her big brown eyes at him, green reflected light bouncing off her cheeks.

“Ooooh classy, short jokes,” she laughed.  “If this were a date you would be in so much trouble."

Sam grinned down at her.

"I was saying I’ve never been to one of these either.  Never got asked in middle school.  Figured if I wanted to go I should get up the courage and ask first.”  Sam let her drag him to the middle of the dance floor, bumping elbows with people around them who continued dancing and ignoring the intrusion.  Sam didn’t care for the music they played, but it was an easy beat to move to, and that was good enough.  Jess unlinked her arm with his and moved to stand opposite him.  He tried not to laugh when she started to dance, swinging her arms back and forth like she was in an old eighties flick, kicking her feet to the beat of the R&B song they had playing.

Jess’ complete lack of inhibition and unadulterated excitement was infectious, and soon Sam was mirroring her moves, laughing and breathing hard by the middle of the fourth song.  She reached out and grabbed his wrists, and he let her pull him forward and swing back out, pulling one hand away as he spun her around, almost plowing into the couple beside them.  She laughed, breathless, as she spun back into his arms, and for a moment they both stood still, her lips parted as she stared up at him, his arms wrapped around to her back to keep her steady. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he told her, smiling wide like he hadn’t done in ages.

“You like it,” she teased back, trying to blow the loose strands of hair out of her eyes as the song ended. 

A slower song started up, and Jess didn’t try to pull away.  Neither of them moved, though, Sam just stared down at her, a blush creeping up his cheeks as she stared back.  Slowly, she moved her hands up to link around his neck, swaying her hips gently to the sultry beat.

“ _It’s not a silly little moment, it’s not the storm before the calm…_ ”

Sam moved a hand to her hip, suddenly too aware of how the thin, soft fabric clutched at her slight curves.  She smiled up at him, and very tentatively started to move her feet, as if urging him to lead without being too demanding.  One hand on her hip, and the other up between her shoulder blades, his touch was light as he stepped forward on the beat.

“ _This is the deep and dying breath of this love that we’ve been working on…_ ”

Jess looked up at him as he made his movements more deliberate, spinning them in a slow circle, feeling her thumbs run up and down the nape of his neck in a calming gesture.  She smiled, because she was always smiling, and that was really something that Sam couldn’t understand, and something he really, really liked about her.  This smile was for him, though, and it hit him deep, and he pulled her forward, knowing he couldn’t keep her there, but desperately wishing he had the strength to try.

“ _Can’t seem to hold you like I want to, so I can feel you in my arms… Nobody’s gonna come and save you, we pulled too many false alarms…_ ”

Jess leaned into him slowly, pressing her cheek up against his chest, one hand still draped over his shoulder and the other resting an inch from her face, thumb moving slowly across his chest.  He took the hand he had on her hip and raised it to take hers, holding it against him as they swayed slowly together, their feet hardly leaving the floor.

“ _We’re going down, and you can see it too.  We’re going down, and you know that we’re doomed, my dear…_ ”

“We’re slow dancin’ in a burnin’ room _,_ ” he heard Jess sing against his chest, her fingers gripping his own, his nose buried in her hair. 

\--

Some days it didn’t take much.  Barely took a wrong word to send his mind somewhere tense and tired, and Castiel bit the inside of his lip to try and keep it buried inside him as he watched Dean move through the kitchen.  They had time, he knew, before Sam came home, and so Dean had opted to actually follow through on their plans for dinner and a movie.  Castiel had no idea how he was going to be able to focus on a movie when it was all he could do to keep himself steady.

If Dean asked him what was wrong at that moment, he wasn’t even sure he could properly say.  His home life was bleak at best, and he missed what little connection he had with his brothers before their last fallout.  He tried to tell himself that it was something they could try and fix with time.  That eventually they would find common ground again, that he would find a way to fit himself back into the equation without sacrificing his morals to do so. 

Zachariah had begun mentioning Sam again, though, and he was listening to Castiel less and less. 

Raphael had at least given Zachariah tasks to keep him busy, the specifics of which Castiel had no interest in finding out, because he had been, at the very least, resistant to his brother’s choice of occupation for as long as he had known about it.  The only reason Raphael didn’t expect Castiel to eventually be an active part of the business was because he considered him to be too fucked up to manage it.  It was one of the ways his psychiatric history worked in his favor, even if his older brother’s assumptions cut… kind of deep.

And yeah, that was the root of the problem, because no matter how much time passed, that was always what it boiled down to, and it never, ever subsided. 

He knew it was irrational to even be thinking about this right now, much less getting himself wound up over it.  But there was so much anger, coiling up inside him, the fact that he was denied one thing he really needed, to _properly_ mourn the sister he’d been so close to, because his brothers couldn’t understand how much everything kept piling up in his head, in his chest, in the marrow of his bones.  The loss slipped into pockets in his mind when he least expected it, when he ate alone at the end of the over large dining table in his home, or when he heard a laugh, close enough to her voice that his kneejerk reaction was to turn and look out for her. 

Castiel clenched his fists and straightened his back, trying to mimic a steadiness he couldn’t force himself to feel.

“Cas?  Hey, Cas?” Dean was waving a hand in front of his face, other arm crossed over his chest and a soft, concerned frown between his eyes.  “The hell’s going on, man?” 

Castiel looked up at him, watching his full lips twitch in a would-be frown.  Castiel wanted, more than anything, to make it so Dean wouldn’t find it necessary to shoulder any small portion of his own anxiety.  He tried to relax, rolling his shoulders awkwardly as he cocked his head to the side, focusing on Dean’s big green eyes and not on the way he couldn’t seem to fit quite right in his own skin. 

Dean pressed his lips together like he was trying to figure out if he should say something, eventually settling on taking a long gulp of his beer and turning toward the old stereo tucked in with the VCR and DVD player under their cheap television. 

The station Dean had it on was playing an older soft rock ballad by The Scorpions, and Dean rocked back a little, balancing on the balls of his feet as he kneeled over it.  Dean turned up the volume and glanced back at Castiel, as if to gauge his reaction.  He didn’t seem altogether pleased with what he found there, taking a small breath before standing to face Castiel outright.  Castiel tried again to relax, to just sit back and… smile or something, but it just tensed him up more to try.  He watched confusedly as Dean’s eyes roved over his face.

“ _If we'd go again, all the way from the start, I would try to change the things that killed our love…_ ”

The music played on as Dean rolled his eyes and set his jaw, like he’d come to some important conclusion.  Castiel frowned as Dean held out his hand, trying to hide how embarrassed he was at what he was proposing. 

“C’mon dude, don’t make me ask,” Dean said, his eyes glancing around at the floor rather than meet Castiel’s. 

Castiel sucked in a breath and pushed himself to his feet, approaching Dean tentatively, still trying to keep himself steady.  Dean took both of Castiel’s hands and placed them around the back of his neck, and then moved his own hands down to Castiel’s waist, leaving a good half arm’s length of space between their bodies.  Castiel tried to move forward, but Dean laughed and held Castiel’s hips away from his own. 

“Leave room for Jesus, Cas,” Dean teased, his mouth widening in a self-satisfied grin as he began to lead Castiel around in a very simplistic, slow dance.

“ _Try, baby try, to trust in my love again. I will be there, I will be there._ ”

Castiel stared at Dean’s eyes, wide and green, taking quiet, deep breaths, trying to focus on the music and tune out his own thoughts.  Dean’s fingers pressed into his hips, as if trying to pull him back, but Castiel wanted to be somewhere else, not subject to the whims of his frantic mind, or any of the poisonous worries that settled there.  He also wanted to be with Dean, though, and so he forced himself to focus on him, on the way he led him at a pace just slightly offbeat from the music.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me what’s up.  Figure if you wanted to you’d have done it already.  And that’s fine, it’s whatever,” Dean said, low and serious as he tried to meet Castiel’s eyes.  “But me and Sam?  We won’t give you shit for it.  You don’t have to try so hard.  You let all that crap rolling around in your head stay there and it’ll eat away at you.” 

Castiel felt the words cutting away at his tension, making new spaces where Dean and all his warmth could settle in.  Castiel wanted to kiss him, leave soft bruises across his collarbone with his mouth, press his thumbs against the firm, lean muscles of his biceps.  Instead, he smirked.

“ _Yes I've hurt your pride, and I know, what you've been through.  You should give me a chance, this can't be the end_.”

He pushed himself forward against Dean, moving one hand to Dean’s waist and the other to grasp Dean’s hand, holding their arms out to the side as he took the lead.  Dean’s eyes went wide, pupils dilated slightly at the shift in dynamic, the guitar and repetitious stanza of the ballad loud in the otherwise silent room. 

Castiel moved fluidly, knowing the steps to take, comfortable in compensating for Dean’s hesitation in being the one following. 

Truthfully, he was developing a fondness for this music, despite his taste being more a ‘hippie flavor’, as Dean liked to put it.  Classic rock was now somehow synonymous with Dean in his mind, and every song started to feel like him.  Dean, who somehow had strength that threatened rigidity, but was more gentle, malleable.  A tentative, selfless, fragile thing that would sooner backfire on Dean than anyone he was trying to protect. 

Castiel fell into the song the way he was falling into Dean, and he didn’t mind at all.

\--

As the slow song tapered out and a new, fast paced pop song took its place, Sam felt his chest tighten.  He didn’t want to let go of Jess, wasn’t ready for the spell to break just yet.  To his surprise, though, Jess didn’t pull away with the change of music, instead choosing to nuzzle her face further against his chest, her hand squeezing his gently. 

Warmth seeped into his veins; the nerve endings of every spot where his and her bodies met hypersensitive, sending a nervous excitement to ball in his stomach.  Despite the small voice in his head telling him to pull away, he held her closer, tracing her knuckles with the pad of his thumb.  She sighed against him, and he lowered his head until his lips were grazing her hair, and she smelled like cherries and Ivory soap.

They turned slowly on the spot, pressed against one another, ignoring the frantic and excited dance moves of their peers around them. 

Sam was so wrapped up in her, in the small world they had created between them, that he was startled when she leaned her head back, his nose brushing against hers as she stared up at him.  Her eyes were wide for a moment before they slowly shut, lips slightly parted as she moved just a little closer. 

“Jess, I can’t,” he heard himself say, his heart lodged in his throat making it hard to breathe.  He wanted to close to space, wanted to kiss her, but he couldn’t .  “I’m sorry,” he added, knowing it was inadequate when she pulled back, her eyes draining the joy they’d held earlier. 

“Oh god, I- I’m so sorry, Sam I thought.  I just,” Jess sputtered, her brow creased in a frown as she dropped his hand.

“No, Jess wait,” Sam pleaded, because this wasn’t her fault and she needed to know that.

“Sam, no it’s okay.  It was too fast and I just got caught up and I shouldn’t have done that.  I thought maybe, but no it… it’s fine I’m really sorry,” she said, wrapping her arms around her waist as if to protect herself, passing it off as an almost casual gesture. 

“No, Jess, you don’t understand.  I want to, I…  I really, really like you.  Can we go outside to talk?  Please?” Sam asked, shouting over the music.  Jess just looked up at him and nodded, and he took her wrist and led them both out through the sea of bodies, pulling her closer once the crowd had thinned out and they stood on the fringes of the gymnasium, only a few stragglers left to lean up against the painted brick walls.

Once they were outside, Sam turned to her and gave her an apologetic smile, one she tentatively returned. He tried to come up with the right words, but he knew it would be better to just be blunt.  She deserved to know exactly what was going on.  

Especially if she felt for him the same way he felt for her. 

“Look, I’m… really messed up, okay?  Not in a way that I can just pretend doesn’t exist.”  He sucked in a breath, the cold air slicing against his lungs.  “I think about it, all the time.  The drug.  Not just when people bring it up, not just when someone’s offering it to me.  Sure, yeah, there are times when I’m not, when I’m distracted or having fun, a lot of times when I’m around you.  It’s almost always there, though.  Like, in the back of my mind.  And it’s relentless, and I can’t stop it.  I’m still trying to figure this thing out, still trying to move past it.  And I can’t… I won’t be with you, or anyone, until I’m better.  I won’t let anyone shoulder this with me, if I let you in right now, this won’t end well.” 

Sam took a small breath and saw that Jess was shivering with cold, and so he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

“Thanks,” she said simply, pulling it tight around her.

“It won’t end well, and I’m not willing to risk my recovery on it, or risk losing you altogether,” Sam continued, watching her eyes intently, wishing he could just shut up, be a normal teenager, and kiss her.  This shouldn't be something he had to even think about.  “You can’t know what you’re getting into here, if you knew more about what I did because of that poison you wouldn’t even want to be around me, much less date me.”

“Tell me and let me decide for myself, then,” she said, her voice hard but her eyes pleading, slight hands gripping at the seams of Sam’s suit jacket.

“I will, I promise.  But tonight can we just… have fun?” he asked, knowing it was a selfish request but hoping she would oblige him.  They stood silently for a moment, staring at each other as their breath made clouds, white against the dark night’s sky.

“Yeah, of course,” she eventually laughed, staring at her feet.  Sam smiled and moved toward her, reaching out to rest his hands against her shoulders.  She looked up and grinned at him, and he leaned forward, pressing his lips against her cheek.  He felt her shoulders relax as she sighed against him. 

“Thank you,” he told her, before pulling away, both of them heading silently back into the school.

\--

Cas was pressed up against Dean, moving them both in small circles around the floor of the living room as the song he’d put on came to a close.  It had been a joke, a small gesture to try and ease the tension back out of Cas’ muscles.  He’d wanted to just kiss him, drag his fingers down the front of Cas’ shirt as they slotted together, but he thought that might not be what he needed. 

Now Dean was the one overwhelmed, letting Cas take control, easing Dean into step alongside him, their hips brushing just enough to send shivers up Dean’s spine. 

A new song came on, an older one by John Lennon, a quiet piano ballad, sad and sweet and slow.  In so many ways not his scene.  He wanted to pull away, because this thing they were doing was going well beyond friends with benefits territory. It didn't matter how much his body wanted to stay pressed against Cas, in a way that was far less about getting off and much more about comfort. 

That scared him.  A lot. 

He usually insisted on being the caretaker, but Cas took the lead with such ease it was hard not to let him. 

“ _Love is real, real is love, love is feeling, feeling love,”_

Cas leaned forward into him, pulling their arms in toward their bodies, his pace slowing to match the slow roll of the piano music.  Dean’s heart was thudding in this throat, gripping Cas’ hand way too tight and trying to remember to move his feet. 

“This song is so fucking sappy,” Dean grumbled, fighting the urge to press harder against Cas instead of pulling back like he knew he should.

“I like this song,” Cas responded, slotting his cheek up against Dean’s so that Dean could feel his breath on his ear and neck.  It made his hair stand on edge how close he was, and how he was barely doing a damn think about it.  Dean felt the small buzz of Cas’ voice against his skin before he heard him start to hum along with the music. 

Cas’ voice was like gravel, too deep and almost monotonous, which was damn hot to be completely honest, but when he sang his voice went soft.  It wasn’t theatrical, he didn’t embellish the sound, but he put so much of himself into the music that it felt like hearing something desperately intimate.  It sounded like all the things Cas tried to keep locked up. Like all the things he never said.

Dean didn’t realize Cas was moving them slowly toward the wall until he was backed into it, and Cas rolled his hips very slightly over his own, their hands still entwined.  Cas’ mouth opened to drag his teeth across the edge of Dean’s jaw.  He was still humming as he did so, the soft vibration tickling against his skin.

“I thought you liked Lennon,” Cas teased in a low voice, his lips dragging down Dean’s neck as Dean clutched at Cas with his free hand.

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean sighed, turning to nudge Cas’ face with his own, desperate to kiss him.

Cas was slow to respond, teasing him with small kisses down to the hollow of his throat, Dean gasping at the contact.  Dean rolled his hips forward, letting go of Cas’ hand to touch Cas’ neck, his fingers threading into his short hair.  Cas parted his lips against Dean’s skin, his tongue darting out to taste him as his hands tucked up under Dean’s shirt. 

_No._

Dean shuddered and grabbed Cas’ wrists, trying to push his hands away.  Cas couldn’t take his shirt off.

Cas’ mouth stilled and he pulled back, staring at Dean with confusion and concern in his eyes.  Dean leaned forward and tried to kiss him, because he still wanted to.  He just wasn’t ready for this, for Cas to see him.  Cas turned his head, and Dean’s lips met with his jaw, kissing him across the slight stubble.  He hoped Cas would just drop it.

“Dean,” Cas said, his voice shuddering just a little as Dean moved to kiss him under his ear.

“Please, Cas,” Dean said against his shoulder, dropping his forehead till his face was settled to rest in the crook of Cas’ neck.  “Can’t we just leave it on?”

“If you’re not ready just say so,” he said quietly, nudging Dean’s cheek with his nose, hands rising up to touch his shoulders soothingly.

“It’s really... not that,” Dean said, his voice ragged, still hiding his face.

“Then what?” Cas asked, and Dean knew he wasn’t going to get away with ignoring the issue.

“It’s not pretty.”  Dean let out a hollow laugh, pulling back to look Cas in his too bright eyes.  Cas frowned, his eyes narrowing as they looked him up and down, as if trying to see through the dark fabric of his tee.  “Seriously, can we just drop it and make out or something, fuck,” Dean added, irritably.

“You don’t want me to see you?” Cas asked, not angrily, but he trailed his hands down the length of Dean’s arms, making him shudder.  He’d only taken his shirt off for one person, a few months after the fire, and it had been in the dark, and she had looked at him with so much pity he’d almost just asked her to leave.  He didn’t want Cas to look at him like that, because he didn’t want Cas to leave. 

 _Fuck._   He was in way too deep here.  He wished he could shut it the fuck off. 

“What are you so afraid of?  That you’ll scare me off?”

“No,” Dean ground his teeth together, because he didn’t know how to explain himself without just laying everything on the table, all his insecurities and fears.  He wasn’t going to do that, hell no, so he bit the inside of his cheek and tucked his fingers up under the hem of his shirt and pulled it off in one swift motion.

\--

Castiel watched Dean raptly as the shirt slid over his head, light brown hair catching on the fabric as he pulled. 

It took a moment for Castiel to lower his eyes from Dean’s frantic ones, a blush creeping up his lightly freckled cheeks.  When he finally did look down, he saw patches of pink scarred flesh covering Dean’s chest and shoulders, jagged lines that rose up from the pale unmarred skin beside it.  He should have known he’d have scarring from the fire, but this wasn’t what he’d expected.  He couldn’t tell how many were burn marks, but the majority looked like they had been gashes, skin ripped away by jagged pieces of wood or metal.

“Don’t do that,” Dean said, his voice low and frustrated as he turned to pick the shirt off the floor.  “Don’t you fucking do that, I won’t have it from you.” 

Castiel looked at the mess of scars that looped around to his back as well, his eyes stopping momentarily on one small, jagged scar right in the center of his back, between his shoulder blades overlapping some lighter pink burn scars.  Castiel walked forward and pressed himself against Dean’s back as Dean clutched at the shirt, unwilling to turn and look back at him.  He wasn’t horrified, and he certainly didn’t pity Dean. 

He circled his arms around to Dean’s front, his hands spread out on Dean’s blessedly unmarred stomach, pressing his lips against the scar before he finally spoke.

“Are all these scars from the fire?” Castiel asked, nuzzling the pink skin with his nose, opening his mouth to drag his teeth against it.  He felt Dean shudder under his touch.

“Most, yeah,” Dean answered, reaching a hand back and threading his fingers through Castiel’s mussed up hair.

“Not this one,” Castiel said, knowing he was right.

“Not that one,” Dean answered, lowering his hand to brush a finger over the scar himself, touching Castiel’s lips in the process.

“Did someone else do this?” Castiel asked, frowning and clutching at Dean even tighter.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean told him, an answer that was pointedly not a ‘no’. 

Castiel forced himself to focus on Dean’s skin, lowering one hand to tuck his fingers just beneath the waistband of his boxers, teasing the small patch of hair that trailed right under his bellybutton.  His other hand moved up to touch the thick scars across Dean’s shoulder, the contact light and curious as he traced them. 

The scars were a physical reminder of a night he’d much rather forget, one Dean probably wanted to forget as well, but there were also a reminder of how brave and good the man in his arms was.  Despite his insistence otherwise. 

“The skin is numb,” Dean told him, his breath pinched.  

Castiel moved his hand further down where Dean’s cock twitched, half hard as his fingers brushed against it.  Dean let out a soft groan, leaning back. Castiel pressed his mouth up against a scar on the back side of Dean’s shoulder and grazed it with his teeth, tongue darting out to wet the skin as he wrapped his fist around him.  With a jerk of his wrist Dean was hard, a small whine pushing out through his lips.  Castiel rolled his hips against Dean, kissing his neck and stroking him again. 

“Can you feel me now?” he asked, his voice rough before biting down on the new skin, his tongue soothing the ache attentively.

“Yeah, Cas, I feel you.”


	9. Chapter 9

Dean could feel Cas’ eyes on him, a hesitant, gentle finger down the curve of his spine. 

His skin prickled with anticipation, waiting for Cas to make a firm move, to try and wake him.  There was so much about the situation that scared the shit out of him, waking up next to Cas, next to _anyone_ and having them attending to him, watching him like he’s something precious and not just some fucked up teenager.  It scared him because of how much he craved it, that touch, that… affection.  

God, because it was affection, and admiration, and curiosity, and Cas gave it all away like it was nothing to him, like he had nothing to hide. 

Dean shuddered as Cas curled his fingers around the waistband of his boxers, his short nails grazing the small of his back.  It took all Dean had not to let the whine that was sitting in the back of his throat push out between his teeth.

He let his eyes open briefly; blinking at the dim light that crept up from under the curtain.  It was still not quite morning.  They had time, he thought.  Cas had time. 

He could move into Cas’ touch, initiate more, and Dean was dangerously close to opening his mouth to speak before Cas started humming, soft and nondescript, a song he didn’t recognize, and Dean thought better of it. He kept his eyes shut, allowing himself the little touches that he might pull away from if he weren’t playing at sleep.  Cas set his palm against the base of Dean’s spine and dragged his fingers carefully up to the back of his neck, thumb pressed against the scar between his shoulder blades. 

Dean’s stomach twisted into knots, wishing Cas would leave it be.  He didn’t want to relive it.  Any of it, really.  The fire, or anything that came after. 

If Dean could shove it all away he would, every fucking bit of it buried so deep he’d never have to deal with it again.  Even Cas, Dean thought with a hollow feeling in his chest, because he wished even that could have been different, too.  He wondered how things might have been if they had met under normal circumstances, if Cas had never lost Anna.  Would he be happier?  Would he smile wider, laugh easier?  Would he be able to relax for just a few goddamn minutes, get comfortable for once?  Maybe get some sleep?  Would he still be here now? 

 _Would he still want me?_  

Dean felt his shoulders tense involuntarily, Cas pulling his hand away from the scar and dragging it with a feather light touch to his shoulder, the other hand moving to mirror it.  Cas leaned over him as his hands grazed the length of Dean’s arms, and Dean could feel Cas’ breath warm against his oversensitive skin.  Still humming, Cas pressed a kiss to the edge of his jaw, and Dean’s mouth twitched with the urge to kiss him back. 

It was a jarringly selfish thought, that if he had to choose anything good to come out of this fucked up situation, it would _always_ be Cas. 

Knowing that left him feeling open, and raw, and so deeply goddamn vulnerable he wanted to push Cas away.  When Cas stopped touching him of his own accord, he knew he never would have been able to.

Cas sat perched at the edge of Dean’s bed for a moment, unmoving, and Dean knew him leaving was inevitable.  It hung in the air, setting in over him like a heavy sheet.  It felt like suffocating. 

He curled into himself almost imperceptibly, fighting back the urge to just reach out to him and pull him back.  Keep him here for a few more fucking minutes. _Goddamn it._ Dean listened as Cas pushed himself up off the bed and walked to the door, pausing one more time before letting himself out.  When the door clicked shut, Dean moved, grabbing the sheets that were twisted around his ankles and tugging them up over his shoulders, telling himself over and over how much he didn’t give a shit.

\--

After Jess and her mother had dropped Sam back off at home, he’d stayed up the rest of the night, stuck in his own head; trying to remind himself that he’d turned Jess down for the right reasons.  He hadn’t wanted to, because she was kind, and open, and fucking beautiful, let’s be honest, but it was more than that and he knew it.  They fit together, and Sam hated himself for being too messed up to give this thing a shot.  But what could he do? 

He wasn’t the same fucked up kid he was a year ago, but he wasn’t good.  He wasn’t _clean_.

Sam slept restlessly for a few awful hours, fighting off nightmares that burned too hot, images of Ruby’s black hair like a halo around her face, tinged in flickering orange light, mouth wide in a silent scream.  He felt the heat searing his skin, flesh bubbling up and sloughing to the floor as he pushed himself frantically away, the smell following him like disease; dead and rank.  Dean’s voice was like a knife to his temple, sharp in the fog of his mind, pain fighting for dominance over dull euphoria. 

He focused on the sound of his name even as his toes curled, fingernails digging hard jagged lines into the plaster wall ahead of him. 

 _Sam._   _Sammy._

The name, his name, once clear turned to vowels, nondescript and shrill, and he didn’t know anymore who was screaming but he prayed it would just stop just _fucking stop_. 

Sam woke to his own voice, his fingers tangled in his hair, sweat dripping down his neck as the dark room closed in around him.  He took deep, calming breaths, squeezing his eyes shut against his swimming vision, trying to blot out the memory of fire, and ash, and death.  It wasn’t unusual, just unusually _vivid_ , like they had been only weeks after the incident. 

“Fuck,” he breathed into the silence, jumping when the handle of his door turned.  Cas walked in, his brow set in a deep frown, his lips pressed together.

“Sam, are you alright?” he asked, his eyes setting on Sam’s hands, still gripping at his sweat drenched hair.  Sam stared at him, sucking in breath carefully as he tried to adjust to the intrusion.  “Are you hurt?” Cas asked more gently, taking a step forward.

“No, I…” Sam breathed, trying to shake away the fog in his head, reminding himself that Cas was there, tangible and in front of him, and not just an extension of his dream.  “Nightmare,” Sam told him simply, watching as Cas’ frown deepened, a small nod of his head in response.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cas asked after a long pause, and the words sounded forced, like he wasn’t sure if it were the proper thing to ask but genuine in the attempt to help.

“Don’t you have to get home?” Sam asked, trying to ignore the way his hands shook as he tried to release the death grip he had on his hair.  “How are things at home?  You never talk about it,” Sam asked, suddenly curious.

“You’re deflecting,” Cas said simply, his shoulders relaxing a bit as he chanced another step forward.

“So are you,” Sam shot back, sitting up all the way, careful to look Cas in the eye when he spoke.

“There’s nothing to say.  They are… happy to ignore me in favor of their own affairs.  They don’t have much use for me since I stood up for you.  Zachariah is bitter, but he contributes my disobedience to… well, to my…”  Cas’ shoulders stiffened, and his gaze settled on the empty wall to the left of Sam’s bed. 

Sam wasn’t sure if he should ask Cas to finish the thought, but he felt a rush of concern for his friend.  It dawned on him, just then and on other occasions, that neither he nor Dean knew much about what went on when he wasn’t with them.  Or even just what was going on inside his head. 

They had no idea what Cas was dealing with, but he wasn’t sure he should ask.

“Why not stay over here more often?  We don’t mind, I know Dean doesn’t mind,” Sam told him, watching Cas smirk at the sound of his brother’s name. 

“Believe me, much of the time I would rather be here.  Despite their disinterest in me, though, my family puts a lot of stock in loyalty, and when I spend too much time away, they start asking questions.  I want to… keep them ignorant and away from here.  If possible,” he finished, looking back at Sam, a little more relaxed.  Sam nodded at him, understanding, and grateful.  “Are you sure you’re okay, Sam?”

Sam took a deep breath and glanced at the clock on his bedside table, just to give himself something to do.  It was 5:23 am.  “Jess tried to kiss me last night,” Sam told him simply.

“Do you not like her?” Cas asked, brow furrowed, obviously confused.  Sam sighed and leaned back, kicking the blankets off his legs as he did so.  He was too warm.

“I do like her, but I can’t be with her.  You saw me the other night, Cas.  You saw how I was with Crowley, the way I was… begging.”  Sam’s mouth went dry around the word, and he took a moment to drag his tongue across his lips.  Cas watched him attentively with a small frown.  “That’s not the way someone who’s ‘better’ acts.”

“Do something about it, then,” Cas told him.  Sam looked up, confused.  “Talk to someone.  Your rehabilitation shouldn’t stop just because you’re no longer in a hospital.”  Cas paused for a moment, contemplating.  “They should have at least recommended that to you, to seek consistent counseling once you were released.” 

Sam nodded slowly as Cas lowered his piercing gaze to look him in the eye. 

“You’re a good person, Sam, and you don’t deserve to spend the rest of your life paying for your mistakes.  You’re allowed to get better.”

“It’s been a year, Cas.  This is me a _year_ later.  How much longer should this take?”  Sam pressed his eyes shut, trying to focus on the cold air against his skin, the thin wisps of hair on his arms standing on end.

“As long as it has to,” Cas answered simply, glancing at the clock.  “I have to go.”

“I know,” Sam answered, watching as Cas turned toward the door.

“Goodbye, Sam.  And… consider it.”

“Yeah.  See you later, Cas.”

Sam shuddered as the door clicked shut, falling back against the headboard. 

He wondered if he should try and sleep a little more, but he didn’t want to go back there, back to those memories.  Not tonight.  He opted instead to turn on the lamp that sat on his bedside table and thumb mindlessly through his history textbook until soft morning light leaked out between his blinds.

Sam made his decision before the weekend was up, so when he finally walked into the school on Monday morning he was determined. 

After a lot of bitching from Dean about having to wake up early, which Sam thought was a load of crap because his brother could function on four hours of sleep a night if he wanted to, Sam convinced him to drive him to school an hour early so he could attempt to meet up with the school counselor. 

The halls were odd in their emptiness, the dim morning light casting the place in an unfamiliar hue. 

He made his way toward the offices, stopping in front of the door labeled with M. Moseley in thick black lettering.  He stared at it blankly, suddenly nervous.  He had never liked counseling at the Center, but it was mostly because the doctor who he was assigned to didn’t seem to take any interest in him as a person, and he had stopped trying to open up after the first couple of sessions. During group counseling he was good at keeping his mouth shut, offering short, concise answers when put on the spot. 

Kids like him were rare, ones who were there under court mandate, even less with something as severe as arson and culpability for the death of two people on their record.  He wasn’t popular, to say the least.

Before Sam could build up the courage to knock on the door, a woman brushed past him and reached for the handle, turning around after a moment as if she’d just decided to take notice of him.  She raised an eyebrow, her piercing gaze sizing him up.  She was dark skinned and heavyset, a brown bag slung over her shoulder bursting with papers and books. 

“Are you Mrs. Moseley?”  Sam asked, watching as she turned the knob and let the door crack open, crossing her arms in front of her chest as it swung back slowly on its hinges.

“You can call me Missouri.  And I haven’t been a ‘Mrs’ in years,” she told him, a slight quirk of her lips as she watched him recollect himself.

“Oh, alright.  I’m sorry.  My name is Sa-“

“Sam Winchester.  Yes, I know you, boy.  Not a soul in this school who hasn’t heard one thing or another about you.” 

Sam stared at her, trying to discern her feelings on the matter.  He wondered how much she really knew, and how much was just speculation passed around between students and staff when they’d run out of more substantial shit to talk about.  He wondered if she’d made up her mind about him already, he wondered a lot of things, but she just smiled warmly at him and extended one hand to gesture him forward. 

“You gonna stand there and stare at me all day or are you gonna come in.  I’d been hopin’ you’d show up sooner or later.” 

Sam swallowed the stone in his throat and stepped forward, letting her lead him into a dimly lit room, lamps on the tables in lieu of overhead fluorescent lighting which made the room feel far more comfortable than any other space in the school.  She directed him toward a comfortable couch and he stared at it cautiously, knowing as soon as he accepted it, he was accepting a lot more. 

Missouri ignored his hesitation and moved toward a small coffee maker, scooping some grounds into the filter at the top before turning it on, the smell permeating the room.  Sam hadn’t smelled freshly made coffee in what felt like ages.  It was comforting, something just on the precipice of familiar.

“Would you like a scone, Sam?  Made fresh before I came in this morning.”  Sam looked over as she pulled a small container out of her overstuffed briefcase, wondering what kind of person woke up early to make homemade pastries before work.  Sam thought he’d like a person like that. He paused for a moment before he walked to her, taking the warm bread from the container she set on her desk.  She smiled as he took a bite, his mouth watering around the soft, flaky pastry.  “Good.  Now tell me what brought you here.”

“What have you heard?” Sam asked before he could stop himself, his heart hammering as his head swam with uncertainties.  He began picking apart the bread with his fingers as she stared at him.

“I’ve heard a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean I know a damn thing about you.  None of it explains why you’re here now.  If this were just about what happened a year ago you’d have come to me sooner.”  Sam relaxed a bit, eyeing the couch warily.  “Sit if you want, honey, it won’t bite.”  Sam moved slowly and took a seat, trying to relax and decide what details he wanted to give her, where even to start.

“Start at the beginning,” Missouri said.  “And we’ll work from there.”

\--

Monday morning had come too slowly for Castiel, and he balled his hands into fists as his brother pulled into the school parking lot. 

They were arriving late, and that meant he’d have to go most of the day before seeing Dean, if he were even at school at all.  Castiel knew he didn’t require Dean to be around him constantly to be content, but things were just… better with Dean.  Even when he wouldn’t touch him, for fear of his brother finding out (which was interesting in itself because Dean was most likely not giving his brother enough credit, they’d spent the night locked in Dean’s room one too many times for Sam to not have noticed this was not normal platonic male friend behavior).  Being with Sam and Dean felt more like home than his own family ever had. 

Save for Anna, and Gabriel before he ran off God knows where.

He had tried to stop actively thinking about Gabriel a long time ago, but he still held on to bits of him, small, binding strings of memory that warmed him when he needed something to hold onto.  Thoughts of Anna could do the same, if it weren’t for the deep, unrelenting emptiness that accompanied them.  Anna had been kinder, though, more loving, Gabriel more capricious, and in many ways just as dangerous as Raphael.  He acted more with his heart than with his head, though, which was what drew the solid line between them. 

It was also probably the reason he had finally disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a small, plastic figurine that Castiel kept among the other pieces of faith he’d collected, and a note that simply read ‘ _sorry bro’_.

Castiel stepped out of the car into the chill air, sucking it into his mouth and filling up his lungs.  He could smell winter, crisp and light, and he pulled his hands into the sleeves of his jacket, the tips of his fingers beginning to numb.  He didn’t wait for his brothers to follow, moving purposefully and quickly into the school. 

He heard the shrill sound of the first bell as he shoved his way through the doors, a rush of warm air like a physical weight against his body.  He turned down an emptying hall, passing a long set of lockers before he felt a warm hand wrap around his wrist, tugging him back as he stumbled.  Castiel turned to face Dean, who was grinning like he was particularly proud of himself before pulling Castiel back against a supply closet door in a dark, cramped space between two rows of lockers, hidden for the most part as their hips pressed together and Dean grazed his teeth across Castiel’s jaw. 

“I got here early, you dick.”  Dean teased against his neck, reaching out to open the closet door and backing up until they were both completely enveloped in the dark, cramped space. 

Dean shut the door before he returned his attention to Castiel, his hands restless and pushing up under his jacket, palms hot against Castiel’s cold, bare stomach.  Castiel’s breath caught in his throat, overwhelmed by the sudden barrage of sensation, his hips twitching forward toward Dean’s. 

“Where’ve you been?” Dean asked, breathless against the edge of his mouth. 

“My brothers were slow,” Castiel answered in a ragged voice, bringing his hands up to the sides of Dean’s face, cheeks flushed pink as he pulled back to admire him.  “You can’t give me shit, you often don’t show up at all.” 

Dean barked out a laugh as he moved a hand downward to palm Castiel through his pants.  Castiel’s head spun as he focused on the feeling, leaning in to kiss Dean aggressively, taking his soft bottom lip between his teeth. 

They didn’t do this, they didn’t let this thing between them get in the way of classes, or at least they hadn’t until now.  Dean seemed adamant to turn Castiel into a heap of raw nerves, a small whine escaping him as Dean dragged his thumb and forefinger across his length, the other hand snaking around to touch the small of his back.  Castiel’s heart was pounding so hard he almost didn’t hear the second bell, and he pulled away from Dean, startled. 

“I’m late for homeroom.” Castiel told him, his voice pinched and breathy.  He felt his cheeks warm as Dean let up, moving his hand to join the other at the base of Castiel’s spine, their hips slotting together.

“Forget about it,” Dean told him quietly.  “They won’t give a fuck, just... please give me a few goddamn minutes.”  Dean sounded frustrated, needy, rolling his hips against Castiel’s, promising more if Castiel would just stay. 

God, he wanted to, but this wasn’t a good idea. 

They were risking enough even seeing each other at school, much less full on skipping classes to press up against one another in a crowded supply closet.  Dean seemed to sense his hesitation, and his touches went softer, more soothing, bringing his fingers up to touch Castiel’s jaw as he placed small, gentle kisses down his neck. The feeling in Castiel’s chest swelled as Dean pleaded with him in soft caresses, quiet murmurs, the soft press of his body.

"Please, Cas," Dean whispered into his skin. His forehead rested at the crook of his neck, breath coming out in quiet, warm pants. Castiel shivered. 

Instead of pulling away like he should have, he wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist, tucking his hands up under the waistband of his jeans, his fingers tracing the small dimples that rested at the base of his spine.  Dean kissed him gently, moving more insistently against him then, his fingers twisted up in the stiff fabric of his shirt. 

He wanted this, he wanted Dean, in every way, and there he was just grasping for him.  Castiel couldn’t say no.

Castiel dragged his hands back around to the front of Dean’s pants, fumbling to unlatch his belt and the button of his jeans as Dean continued rutting mercilessly against him, his mouth open and panting hot breath against his lips, his nails digging into the soft skin of Castiel’s back.  Castiel felt a fire burning low in his abdomen, and he chased the feeling, meeting Dean’s thrusts as he fumbled at his own belt, letting Dean guide his movements with his hands. 

Once his fly was hanging open, he took control, pinning Dean up against the wall of the closet and rolling his hips unremittingly slow against Dean, listening to the low moans that pulled up from his shaking chest. 

Castiel pulled back for a moment and looked at him.  Dean was so beautiful, his cheeks flushed as he reached out to thread his fingers through Castiel’s belt loops, tugging him forward lazily.  Castiel felt like he could watch him like that for hours, his chest heaving as he bit back small sounds of desperation, hair wild from being rut up against rough plaster walls.  They didn’t have hours, though. 

They barely had minutes.

“Don’t just fuckin’ stare at me man,” Dean slurred, his eyelids drooping and pupils blown with arousal. 

Castiel didn’t need to be told twice, not when he looked seconds away from begging, and he found himself moving back in and covering Dean’s mouth with his own. 

He knew they were running down the clock, they were _always_ running down the clock, and that just made his grasp at Dean harder, reaching down between them and pushing his fingers up under the waistband of Dean’s boxers, wrapping his hand around him.  Dean whined softly into Castiel’s mouth, and the sound went through him like electricity.  Dean was falling apart in his arms, fucking up into his hand like he was desperate for the sensation, shoving his leg between Castiel’s thighs so Castiel could find some friction against him.

He felt so good, Castiel pressing himself against the soft curve of Dean’s hip, Dean moving more insistently against him, one hand in his hair and the other snaked around to the base of his spine.  Dean pulled him closer so there was barely any space between them, barely enough room for Castiel to move his hand as Dean unraveled against him. 

“Fuck yeah, Cas,” he breathed into his ear, teeth closing gently around the lobe as he moved in quick, shallow thrusts.  Castiel barely needed to do more than grip his hand tighter around him. 

When Dean came, Castiel had to cup his free palm over Dean’s open mouth to muffle the noise, pressing soft kisses against his jaw. 

Dean slumped against him, barely able to continue pulling Castiel forward against his hip, murmuring something that sounded vaguely like his name and ' _please_ '.

Castiel was still aching, and he continued to roll his hips forward against Dean’s side as he wound his clean hand around to touch the small of Dean’s back, burying his face against Dean’s neck, feeling the other man’s heartbeat fast against his skin.  Just the sound of blood pumping through his veins wrecked him in ways he couldn’t even understand.

“Come on, baby,” Dean rasped out, his arms heavy as they pulled him closer.  Castiel was right at the precipice, he could feel the pressure building in his stomach, and it grew more as Dean placed lazy kisses against his hair.  “Fuck, Cas.  Come for me.”

He was falling apart, nails digging into Dean’s soft skin as he rode out his pleasure, hips rolling forward as he grasped for resistance.  He whispered Dean’s name against his skin, more a broken gasp than legitimate speech, the pleasure wracking his body in waves.  When he was done, when he was spent and exhausted he slumped to the floor, pulling Dean down with him. 

Castiel covered him, curled up in Dean’s arms as Dean ran his hands through his hair. 

Something welled up in his chest as he listened to Dean’s heartbeat slow back to a normal pace, something warm and painful in the best way, in a way that made him feel desperate for more. 

Castiel kissed him, soft and slow. No heat, no teeth or tongue, just gently finding all the ways he could press their lips together.

\--

They stayed there, until the next bell rang, having no choice but to clean themselves up as best they could and sneak back out, one at a time, to get to their next class.  Castiel watched as Dean made his way down the hall, turning only after he’d disappeared around a corner. 

What he saw when he turned sent his heart plummeting to his gut, a familiar pair of eyes set in a deep frown, watching him carefully. 

Castiel couldn’t breathe.

Uriel’s eyes were dark as he beckoned Castiel forward.  His brother had seen them together, he knew everything, and Castiel wanted to double over.  Instead he pulled himself straight up and looked his brother in the eye.  This wasn’t panic, this was flat out terror.  It was mortification gripping him so hard and so quickly that he had no defense against it. 

He hadn’t been careful.  He’d fucked up and he had no idea how to move forward, how to fix it. 

 _You can start by talking to your brother_ , he told himself _, you can start by doing anything but just standing there_.  Castiel clenched his fists, controlling every tiny movement of his body as he walked forward.

Castiel followed Uriel down the hall until they were standing under the stairs to the second floor, his brother’s expression caught somewhere between controlled rage, and amusement, which was absolutely a more worrying response. 

“What do you think you’re doing Castiel?” his brother spat, his dark eyes roaming over his messed up hair, his crumpled shirt.  Castiel stood straighter to try and make up for his dishevelment, but he knew he was lost.  “Is that how you spend your time, _brother_?”  He threw the word at Castiel like a weapon, and Castiel tried not to let it cut like one.  “You turn your back on your own family… for _them_?  You were closer to Anna than any of us, and you’re…. _fucking_ Sam Winchester’s brother?”  Uriel was struggling to keep his tone steady, the more he spoke the more he seemed to realize the severity of the situation. 

“It’s not like that,” Castiel told him, his voice too high as he tried to bite down the overwhelming urge to rip at his hair, his heart thudding so fast in his chest he couldn’t see straight.  He had to be here for this, he had to be rational.  “Please, Uriel,” he pleaded.

“If Zachariah found out, if Raphael –“

“No.  Do you have any idea what they would do, what _Raphael_ would do?”

“I do.  Do you?” Uriel bore down on him, and for the first time in his life Castiel was afraid his massive younger brother might not hold back.

“Of course I do, but you misunderstand.  Sam… both of them, Uriel, these are good people, who _don’t deserve_ this.” Castiel tried to explain, his breath catching in his throat as he readied himself to defend.

“Are you so far gone that you really believe that, Castiel?”  Uriel asked, indignation in his voice, and disappointment. “That you would really place your faith in the morality of the boy who killed your sister above your own family?

“Are you so angry with me that you won’t even _listen?_ ” he spat back.  Castiel held himself with a confidence he did not feel, his hands in fists so tight they were starting to numb.  “I know Sam, and yes he made a horrible mistake, but he is good and kind and I won’t see him or Dean hurt because of me.”  Castiel could feel himself shaking but he held firm.  “I am your brother, we were close once, and I am begging you.  Please.  Don’t betray me.” 

Castiel forced himself to meet his brother’s eyes.  Uriel went soft for a moment before his lips pressed in a hard line, staring back at Castiel.

“What do you expect from me, Castiel?” he asked, bringing his hand up and dragging it down his face.  “To keep this secret for you?”

“I do,” said Castiel, trying to sound more stable than he felt. 

His brother responded well to instruction, falling into step behind Zachariah and Raphael, and even himself when handled properly.  He also hoped, somehow, that he had not completely lost his brother’s affection.  They didn’t always agree, but they were still bound to each other.  That was something that would never change.

“You’re asking too much,”  Uriel told him, his voice tired and irritated, backing away from Castiel slowly.

“I know,” Castiel said, the panic fading slightly as Uriel’s rage subsided. 

Uriel didn’t give him an answer, just a small nod before he turned away, the halls already empty of other students.  Castiel wasn’t sure he could make it through his next class, his heartbeat hammering in his ears, his hands trembling.  The euphoria of seeing Dean earlier had been completely replaced with a dull, horrible ache in his chest. 

When Uriel was gone, he walked purposefully to the bathroom and locked himself in a stall, hands around the back of his neck, face nearly between his knees.  He was scared, and not for any of the right reasons.  He was terrified of losing them, losing Sam and Dean and this thing between them, and he didn’t want to go back to the way things were before:  everything uniform, and bleak, and lonely.

Once he felt calm enough to leave the stall, he hid himself out at the senior courtyard, avoiding the students that came and went throughout the day.  He should have known better, though, because Dean eventually found him there during his own lunch hour, kneeling over him, arms boxing him in on either side. 

“Cas, the hell are you doing here?” Dean asked, his eyes wide as he looked him up and down. 

Castiel frowned and reached out, to shove him away or pull him closer, he wasn’t even sure anymore, but he twisted his fingers into the pliant leather of Dean’s jacket.  Dean caught his hand, running his thumb over his knuckles as he pulled him closer.  Along with everything else, Castiel was sick of this, sick of making Dean worry, sick of having to be taken care of.  He pulled his hand away and pushed himself up against the wall, Dean standing up with him, keeping a small breath of distance between them.

“Stop it, I’m fine.  There was a test today I didn’t study for, I’m just hiding out until it’s over.”  Castiel tried to pull his lips into a smile, and it must have worked because Dean smirked back.  “I should go back now.”

“Right.”  Dean paused for a moment, frowning.  “You coming over tonight?  I gotta go to work, but I’ll be back by eight.  Sam’ll be around, though.”

“I can’t, Dean,” Castiel told him, his voice laced with frustration. 

He didn’t mean to sound like that, but he couldn’t help it.

“Yeah… alright, man.  No big deal.  We’ll see you around.”  Castiel looked up at Dean, who had backed up even more, the space between them screaming, and Castiel wanted to reach out to him, let him know it wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t.  He just turned and left the courtyard, bypassing the classrooms and heading straight for the parking lot. 

He would wait for his brothers at the car, it was all he could think to do.

When Zachariah and Uriel appeared out of the school a couple hours later, Castiel felt the panic rise in his chest again.  He expected something, a look to tell him that his brother knew, but Zachariah continued on as if nothing were odd, and so Castiel tried to play along.  Once they were home, Castiel locked himself in his room, waiting for the fallout that never came.

Day slipped into night, and his home went even more still, his brothers either out or in bed, and Castiel could do nothing to slow the frantic thrum of his heart, the need to escape, the growing desperation to find Dean and keep him close because he was on the precipice of losing him. 

It was a horrible thought, and it turned him ragged, unable to rip the threads of fear and uncertainty from his mind.  He was feeling too much, and it was overwhelming. 

By the time midnight came around, he was a wreck, more exhausted than he’d been in days, and further still from sleep.  He’d tried to talk himself out of it, but he needed to leave, get out of his house before the weight of its presence collapsed in on him.  It was everything at once, every fear he kept tucked deep in the back of his mind was coming forward, eating away at him until his was nothing but bare nerves. 

He stepped out into the biting cold, suddenly aware of his bare arms but too desperate for escape to care. 

By the time he was standing at Dean’s front door, he was convulsing, almost unable to raise his hand to knock, the wood cold and sharp against his knuckles.  It was too long before he saw the lights inside the house flicker on, and he dropped his arms, his body far too heavy. 

He wondered how he’d stayed standing for so long when his shoulders were made of lead, his legs made of tissue paper.  Castiel almost dropped to his knees, but the door swung open and he found a few more moments of strength, Dean staring at him as a warm blanket of air rushed forward to combat the cold.  His skin felt like it was on fire, but he shivered violently, unable to do more than stare.

Dean was there, he was safe.  In that moment, that was all Castiel needed.

\--

It was _past_ midnight, and Cas was standing in Dean’s doorway, his arms bare and shaking so hard he looked like he was about to fucking collapse.  Dean’s stomach twisted into knots, anger and fear welling up inside him as he rushed forward.

“What the fuck?” Dean asked, closing the space to cover Cas’ body with his own.  “What the fuck, Cas?  You stupid fucking son of a bitch.” 

Cas was shaking violently, curling his arms up against his stomach so they were fitted between his body and Dean’s, and Dean felt his muscles contract at the sudden cold.  He didn’t complain, didn’t do anything but hold him tighter, pulling him into the house and slamming the door shut behind them. 

“We gotta get you warm, man, I’m putting on the shower.”  Cas shook his head weakly, but Dean ignored him, walking them both to the washroom. 

Dean sat him against the wall of the bath, keeping his arms around Cas as he turned on the shower, reaching a hand out from time to time to check the temperature. Cas wouldn’t fucking stop shaking, his teeth chattering loudly, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. His face was pressed against Dean's neck, shaking mouth grazing the sensitive skin, making everything in him soften and tense up simultaneously.

After checking the water again, Dean leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss against Cas’ trembling lips, Cas trying and failing to return it.  Then he pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead pressed against Cas’. 

“You’re gunna kill me, scare me to fuckin’ death one of these days.  What the hell were you thinking?”

Dean could almost imagine his father’s mantra, telling him how to detach himself, telling him how to deal, but for once in his life he pushed it down.

Cas didn’t answer, he couldn’t, and Dean didn’t ask again.  Instead, he moved to pull Cas up, gently removing his shirt, his fingers trailing down to Cas’ belt. 

They had been here before, Dean undressing him, but this time it was different.  He was allowed to look, unafraid that Cas might get the wrong idea.  Dean had already acted on all his wrong ideas.  Cas shook as Dean slid his pants and boxers down to his ankles, standing back up and wrapping his arms around Cas, making sure he didn’t lose his balance as he stepped out of the pants.  His skin was like ice, and so Dean squeezed him and pressed a small, warm kiss against his shoulder before gesturing for Cas to step under the lukewarm stream of water.  Cas obliged him, convulsing as the water pounded against his bare skin. 

Dean’s stomach twisted into knots as Cas ground his teeth together, stepping both feet into the tub.  He leaned back against the wall and slid into a sitting position, knees pulled up to his face, arms outstretched in front of him.

“Dean,” was the first thing Cas said when he could speak again. “I’m sorry.”

Dean stared at Cas, curled up on himself under the steady stream of water, his face buried between his arms.  He didn’t understand what the fuck was going on.  Showing up at midnight, having apparently walked here in the near freezing cold in nothing but an undershirt and a pair of thin black dress pants.  It was fucking… infuriating, and terrifying.  And it pissed him off but all he wanted to do was go wrap his arms around him again, because what the fuck other choice did he have? 

Dean stood and pulled off his own shirt, leaving him in just his boxers because he’d been sleeping when Cas started pounding on his front door.  He wrestled with himself for a moment before shoving his thumbs up under the elastic waistband, letting them fall to the floor.  Cas wasn’t paying any attention until Dean climbed into the bath with him, pushing Cas forward so he could settle himself in against his back, arms curling around his front, face pressed against the base of his neck.

Cas was unresponsive for a while, shivering intermittently before going completely slack.  Dean pressed closer, staying with him, waiting it out. 

After a while Dean chanced a small kiss on the back of Cas’ neck, feeling him shiver lightly at the touch.  The contact was overwhelming, his bare chest up against Cas’ warming skin, a frantic heartbeat that was making both of them shudder with a steady thrum.  Cas was fucking everything up, or maybe it was just Dean.  The harder he tried to convince himself that this was casual, the more he acted like it wasn’t. 

He’d always had a piss poor time at keeping himself from getting attached, and Cas was… craning his neck to catch Dean’s mouth with his own, tongue darting out to lap up the small drops of water that clung to his lips.   _Fuck him._

Dean had absolutely no defense.

Before Dean knew what was happening, Cas was completely turned around, kneeling between his legs with his chest pressed against Dean’s, hands up to cup his face as he kissed him more fervently.  Dean groaned into his mouth, fingers tracing the soft curve of Cas’ hips, hands settling on his thighs, thumbs making indentions against the pliant surface, grasping at him.  Cas' movements were fevered, needy, and Dean tried to keep up with him but he was completely overwhelmed.

"Please," Cas said quietly, in the space between their mouths. Dean didn't know what he was asking for.

Cas held him close, supported him at the curve of his back, pressing his hips against Dean’s, cocks brushing as their bodies slotted together in a slow, languid roll.  Fuck, he was moving _fast_ , but Dean just lifted his hips further so Cas could slide his hand down the curve of his ass, his heart thrumming in his ears.

"Cas," Dean said, quietly wrecked. "You gotta tell me what you need."

Cas pulled back, then, his body going still. Dean stared up at him, Cas’ hair pitch black and soaked and sticking to his skin in thick curls, mouth open as he returned the gaze, water falling in rivulets over his toned arms and chest.  Fuck, though, he was gorgeous, fucking perfect, and Dean had never seen him this raw before. 

His eyes roamed over him hungrily, but Dean saw desperation there too, felt it in his movements as he moved to grip at Dean’s shoulders.  Cas cupped his jaw, running a shaking thumb across the dip below his bottom lip.  Dean’s chest was heaving as Cas’ fingers ghosted over his stomach.  They’d never done this... been this close before, and he felt his dick throb almost painfully when the tip of Cas’ cock touched his again, slick with water. 

Cas kissed him like he was starving for it, like he was trying to savor it, make it last.  Energy brimmed in the contact, and he grabbed Dean’s face to pull him closer, moving to straddle him, press his bare hips flush with Dean’s chest, bucking into him almost shyly as he pulled at Dean’s lips.  Dean circled his arms around Cas’ body, tight and enveloping, one hand trailing up to card through his dripping wet hair, vision nearly blanking when he felt the tip of his cock brush Cas' ass. 

Usually quiet, tonight Cas whined, small sounds coming up from the back of his throat as he grasped at him, fingers touching every inch of Dean they could reach except for the place he wanted to be touched the most. Just on the edge of something more, something Dean wanted but wasn't sure he should take.

As if in response to his growing worry, Cas started full on shaking again. Kissing him like he was trying to steal the air from his goddamn lungs. Dean managed to pull himself back, Cas attempting to chase his mouth.  Dean held him still with a small touch. 

“Cas, fuck, are you okay?  Because you’re freaking me out, man.”  Dean tried to soften his words with gentle touches, ignoring the way Cas was still hard and pressed against the bare skin of his chest.

“Do you want to stop?”  Cas asked him, sounding half concerned, and half frustrated. 

“You’re shaking like a goddamn leaf, Cas.  I’m just worried.”  Cas’ body went rigid, the trembling an almost imperceptible thing as he buried his face in Dean’s neck.  “Can you please, for once, just tell me what is happening?  I can’t do shit when you leave me in the dark like this.” 

Dean felt Cas sigh against his skin, and he knew instantly his request would go ignored. 

"Goddamn it.”

\--

Castiel was trying to hold on, because everything was piling up on his shoulders and he felt like he could barely breathe. 

He was terrified Uriel was just biding his time, or that he’d make another mistake and Dean would be gone, and there wouldn’t be a God damn thing he could do about it.  He was just desperate to touch Dean, to be near him, to taste him, to feel him.  To take what he could before he was forced to lose him.  He knew he was being irrational, that this wasn’t healthy behavior, but he was beyond caring.  It was want like he’d never experienced, and he didn’t know how to respond to it but he wanted, he needed, more.

“Dean, I can’t,” Castiel told him, pressing a small kiss just under Dean’s jaw.  “But I want this.” 

He felt Dean shudder against him, turning his head so that Castiel had better access to his neck.  Dean was fighting with himself and Castiel knew it, but if he could save Dean from having to worry about his messed up family then he was going to do it.  Castiel would shoulder it, and he would keep Sam and Dean safe, he knew that with absolute certainty. 

Dean allowed him to place small kisses down his chest, and Castiel kept his hands as steady as he could, but before he could do any more than that he felt Dean’s hands, gentle against his cheeks as he pushed him away, thumbs tracing the shadows under his eyes.

“Let’s go to bed,” Dean said simply, a small frown creased into his brow as Castiel relented, letting his arms fall slack against his sides.  He nodded his consent before pushing himself up, suddenly very acutely aware of his nakedness. 

Dean seemed to understand and he pulled out two towels from under the sink, wrapping one neatly around Castiel’s waist before moving to do the same around his own.  Together they moved quietly through the hall and into Dean’s bedroom, Dean not bothering to find either of them anything to wear before pulling Castiel into bed with him. 

Dean was exhausted, which Castiel knew he should have noticed earlier, and he suddenly felt guilt for everything that had happened.  Dean kissed him, and Castiel's chest hurt at how tender it was.  Dean wrapped him up, skin still damp and shower-warm.

Castiel ran his fingers through Dean’s drying hair as the other man finally drifted off, one arm draped across his waist, his lips pressed against his hip.  There was a dull ache in his chest, and he wished, not for the first time since Uriel had found him disheveled at Dean’s hand, that he had Anna to talk to. 

God, he missed her so much it was a physical pain, the empty space she left in him pressing against his lungs. 

He closed his eyes, humming at first, barely a breath.  Then he let the words come to him, let them wash over him.

It had been her favorite song to sing, doing so with a soft, even tone so many nights when they were just children.  She had been the foundation he had chosen to build himself upon, and without her he felt grief and emptiness so deep it threatened to consume him. 

“ _Blackbird singing in the dead of night_ , _take these sunken eyes and learn to see_ …  _All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free…_ ”  

He had been so close to finding closure, to letting himself really feel her loss, to lament her and let her go.  Instead he locked her up inside him, clinging to the things she left behind.  He didn’t know how to keep this and let go of the rest, he didn’t know if he wanted to, and the only time he’d tried he’d been shut down.  It made him so angry he could barely move, so worn that he could hardy try.

“ _Blackbird fly, blackbird fly_ …” his voice wavered around the lyrics, imagining them as her arms around him, missing her voice the way a drowning man missed air.

Castiel felt Dean’s arm tighten around his waist, then, pulling him back away from his escapist memories, his grief.  Dean propped himself up on his elbow and pushed his arm up over Castiel’s shoulder, tugging him gently down against him, his lips against his collarbone.  Castiel curled into his arms, letting Dean envelope him in the dark room, his grief ebbing slowly away as he focused on their bodies pressed together under Dean’s thick comforter.

“Time to sleep now, little bird,” Dean teased sleepily, and Castiel nodded against him, losing himself in the spaces Dean was carving out for him.  He closed his eyes, and focused on Dean’s heartbeat, and maybe, just for a little while, he slept.

\--

In the morning, before the sun was up, Dean woke to Cas pulling himself away and out of his arms, and Dean felt the loss falling over him. 

There were never enough hours to let themselves be at peace, morning always coming too soon, too suddenly and violently.  Dean bit the inside of his lip, reminding himself of all the reasons this was necessary, all the reasons he couldn’t have just a few more minutes, and he knew they were shit.  It was all complete and utter bull, because Cas, whatever he was, whatever the three of them were, it shouldn’t be bad and it shouldn’t be a secret. 

He deserved this.  _They_ deserved this after everything they had gone through. 

Dean wasn’t letting Cas slip away again, not this easily, not when they had a few more minutes to spare.  Not when he could just reach out and take them.

Dean thought of every morning he had woken to Cas gone, Cas leaving, Cas forced to pretend like this was just some space in their lives meant to be buried and covered up with bullshit pandering.  Forced to answer to family who didn’t care even a quarter as much about the brother they were slowly losing as he and Sam did.  Every morning they had been forced apart collapsed into one another in his head, and he reached out, taking Cas’ wrist between his fingers, looking up into Cas’ tired, bloodshot, and too damn bright to be real eyes. 

“Stay,” he heard himself say.  “Just a few more minutes.”

Easily, like he had been waiting forever to hear those words, Cas did.


	10. Chapter 10

There was something strangely calming about Missouri’s office.  It wasn’t just the lighting or the comfortable furniture; it was the atmosphere in general, a deeply personalized space buried within the tedious uniformity of classrooms and hallways. 

Therapy had always been a struggle for Sam, because despite the fact that he had no trouble being particularly vocal about anything, he also didn’t really like opening up like that to people who weren’t close to him. 

He knew that was something he was going to have to muscle through if he wanted to get better.

Part of it was for Jess, because right now he didn’t deserve her affection, but he thought that maybe eventually he might.  It wasn’t just that, though.  He wanted to get better, for himself, but it helped him to latch onto others.  It gave him a certain measure of determination.  He was doing it for himself, but also for Dean, and Cas, and Jess, because he might let himself down, but he would fight to the bitter end not to let down the people he cared for. 

Not again.

Sam watched Missouri as she settled down across from him, pen and pad in hand, a warm smile on her face, his own greeting less hesitant than before.  The second session started much like the first, with less evasion of course, but with coffee and homemade snacks. 

The first session had ended quickly, more time spent going over the major details of Sam’s history than anything else.  She let him do most of the talking, but he could tell she was listening, not just letting the words roll off her like the doctors at the hospital had done, jaded from talking to too many kids with no real drive to be there.  He thought Missouri genuinely cared about him, about what he had to share with her, soaking it all up and feeding him pieces back as questions and small gestures of interest or understanding.

Sam was grateful, because he knew they couldn’t afford to have him see a ‘real’ therapist. To be perfectly honest, he hadn’t really been sure what to expect when it came to what the school could provide.  He had thought that maybe someone who worked for the public system might be there just because they weren’t skilled enough to work for a proper practice. 

Sam could tell after only one short session that Missouri had a gift for what she did, and a passion for it as well. 

He’d told her a little about how he’d gotten to the night he started the fire, and then as much as he could remember of the actual incident.  It was all very clinical, very succinct.  He hadn’t mentioned the deep, unrelenting fear at the way Dean’s undershirt had been dark with blood, his limbs shaking, the way Sam had just _known_ through the haze of the drug pumping in his veins that if Dean went back in that house he was not coming out again. 

He didn’t mention the way he still remembered Ruby’s voice, clear as a bell, a steady rise to an icy wail that stuck in the back of his head like glue. 

He didn’t tell her those things, because it wasn’t, to him, necessary information.  He thought she might ask him later, purposefully allowing the information he carefully omitted to stay unspoken, knowing he would eventually be ready, and unwilling to force him to that point.

Like the first session, today she didn’t prod too deeply, not in a direct way, and Sam appreciated that.  She let him come around on his own, naturally, like a conversation instead of an interview.  She asked about Ruby, about their relationship.  The steps he took between point A and point B.  It was easy to say these things when she already knew the worst of it.  If she thought badly of him, it didn’t show.

“You loved her,” Missouri said, and it wasn’t a question. 

Sam looked up at her then, his hands going still where before he’d been fidgeting, explaining in detail about the third time he’d shot up.  Ruby holding his hand, realizing it wouldn’t be as good as the first, and how that had broken something inside him that he still wasn’t sure would ever mend.

“I don’t know what love is. I’m just a kid,” Sam told her, parroting off every adult he’d ever heard talk to a teenager about the subject. 

He didn’t say it sarcastically, because a part of him believed what he had been told.  But ’love’ was the only way he could describe the feeling.  It wasn’t a good kind of love, it was like a wound that wouldn’t heal.  It was like what he felt about the drug, he needed her, he craved her, but she’d made him sick, angry, _different_.  

He felt that way now, he realized, like the memories had pried open a fissure in the wall of a massive floodgate.

“I don’t believe that and neither do you,” Missouri told him, sitting forward just a little to look him in the eye.  “You felt somethin’ strong, Sam, I know that much.” 

Sam stared at Missouri, momentarily at a loss for words before he muttered something like, “Yeah.”  He hadn’t thought about the way he’d felt for Ruby since he’d broken down at the hospital.  The first night there, alone, crumbling under the weight of everything that had happened, separated from the person he loved most in the world, someone who couldn’t even properly look at him, and aching over the loss of another. 

“I –“ Sam choked on the word, suddenly finding it impossible to breathe, impossible to move.  There was guilt, yes, because there was always guilt, but there was something else beneath it, something he didn’t feel like he deserved because it was his fault she was gone. 

It was a hole, buried right in the center of his chest, and it was just filled with him missing her.

When the wall came down the feeling didn’t wash over him slowly, it crashed into him, buried him.  He felt like the wind had been knocked from his lungs and he realized he’d started clutching at his chest, his eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

“Sam,” Missouri said gently, and when Sam tried to focus, to calm, to look at her, he couldn’t.

Instead, he fell apart.

Missouri was at his side faster than he could process, a hand on his shoulder, an attempt to center him.  They weren’t at this point, at least they shouldn’t be.  It was completely unprecedented, but there Sam was, pulling at his face like he was trying to pry it off, unable to ebb the flow of tears.  He felt cold, and angry with himself, but he was just a kid, a fucking child, and he didn’t have the strength, didn’t have the equipment to process everything that had happened. 

He thought, in the midst of his wave of grief, that he wished he could lock it all up, bury himself in euphoria.  How fucking easy it would be to just _let go_.

And he knew immediately that thought wasn’t him, because he had never been one to just run away from feeling anything.  He didn’t push shit away, that was more his brother, trying and failing to pretend like they could just shove everything aside without talking about it, without facing it. 

It was just his addiction latching on to the weakest parts of him, and if he could recognize it for what it was, he could stop it from controlling him.

“Breathe, Sam,” Missouri told him calmly, her hand making small circles against his back in a soothing way, but not overly familiar. 

“Sorry - I’m sorry.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Sam told her, his shoulders shaking, hot tears prickling at his eyes.

“Nothin’s wrong with you, honey.  Grief is as natural a part of your recovery as anything else.  You’re allowed to miss her.”

Sam just nodded, planting his elbows against his knees and threading his fingers through his hair.  He let the feeling wash over him completely, then, and as easily as the wall had broken, the wave of emotion settled into something manageable, something soft and aching, but quiet, and the tears on his face slowly began to dry.

Once Sam was calm again, Missouri moved back to her seat and picked up the pen and pad and turned to set them down on her desk.  Sam watched her quietly, wondering if she wanted him to pick up where he’d left off, or if they were ending this for today. 

“Next week's a holiday so we'll meet again in two, Wednesday mornin’, bright and early.  Not a second after seven you hear me?” Missouri asked him with a knowing smile, and he nodded, taking the cue to stand up and collect his things.  Glancing at the clock he realized it was past time for him to go, and he wondered how the hour had gotten away from him. 

“I’ll see you then, and you take care of yourself until I do,” she told him, and he smiled.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam replied as he threw his bag over his shoulder and headed for the door.

Jess was waiting for him outside Missouri’s office, and he saw her expression drop as her eyes swept over his face.  He smiled at her, though; genuinely happy she was there, moving to link his arm with hers as they headed toward their classes.

“You alright?” she asked him, touching a finger to his cheek where he could still feel the tear tracks etched into this skin, and despite himself he leaned into the touch. 

“Yeah, absolutely,” he replied.  Any bad feelings that were still lingering around the edges fell away and were replaced with the easy affection he felt for Jess, something he knew had never come easily with Ruby.  He missed her so much he felt like he couldn’t breathe, dark hair, and dark eyes, but Jess was edging her way in, not intrusively, but easily and carefully, filling up the spaces Ruby had left behind. 

Sam hoped at the end of everything she might still be interested in continuing what they were starting here.

“You need to talk about it?” she asked, and he smiled at her, squeezing her arm as they turned a corner and stopped in front of Jess’ class, a few doors down from his own. 

“I’m fine, I promise.  What about you?” he turned to her and watched her carefully, and she started chewing on her lip and running her fingers through her wild blonde hair.  “What is it?”

“I was thinking, and it’s okay if the answer is no, I understand, but my mom is going out of town this weekend and she was just gunna leave me home alone, it’s just for a night, but I don’t really want to?  I mean, I would prefer to stay with a friend, but Charlie’s mom has been a little iffy about ‘sleepovers’ since she found her half naked in bed with another girl a couple weekends ago.” 

Sam laughed and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, and he realized all these small, familiar touches were moving dangerously close to ‘no longer just friends’ territory, but he couldn’t help himself, and she didn’t mind. 

“Tried to explain that I’m not really into Charlie that way but her mom doesn’t want to chance a repeat performance, if you know what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” Sam told her with a faraway look in his eyes, like he was imagining the _‘absolute horror’_ of walking in on two attractive women making out.

“That’s so messed up, Sam!” Jess scolded with a small slap to his shoulder, and he laughed and pulled away, as if she had grievously wounded him.

“Hey!  I’m kidding alright?  I’m just a teenage boy, what do you expect from me?”

“I expect better,” she told him, half seriously, and he squeezed her shoulders in a small hug as an apology as she rolled her big, beautiful eyes at him.  “Anyway you can say no, but I was hoping maybe I could stay with you and your brother this weekend?  Just one night, I hate being in my house alone.  No half naked making out, I swear.”

Sam made an over exaggerated noise of relief. “Thank God, I was worried.” 

Jess laughed so suddenly she snorted, and the way her face warmed and the tips of her ears went bright red was probably the cutest thing he had ever seen.  He smiled at her, wide and genuine as she cupped her hands over her mouth. 

“Yeah that’s fine with me, I’m sure Dean won’t mind.  If Cas is over he probably won’t even notice.”

“I want to meet Cas,” she told him, as an aside.  “Are they out and proud yet or are they still doing the forbidden lovers schtick?”

“Oh, forbidden lovers all the way, but I don’t mind.  It’s their business; if they don’t wanna talk to me about it I won’t force the issue,” he smiled.

Jess nodded at him, understanding, and he had the sudden urge to kiss her, then.  He pressed his lips together in a tight line and she looked at him questioningly.  It was half a heartbeat of silence before the bell rang, and Jess seemed to shake herself out of something, reaching up to latch her arms around Sam’s neck and pulling him into a warm hug.

“We’ll work out the details later,” she told him, and Sam nodded in response, his cheek burning where her mouth accidentally brushed against it as she spoke. 

He watched her until she disappeared into her classroom, and slowly he made his way down the hall, thinking about the space he had made to house all of his sorrow over Ruby, patched over with guilt, and how the hole was already getting a little smaller, a little less painful.  He didn’t know whether or not he should be happy about that, whether or not it was allowed, but when he looked at Jess, it didn’t feel wrong.

\--

Walks from his house to Sam and Dean’ home had become somewhat therapeutic for Castiel.  He cherished the long stretch between them, the changes in scenery, familiar even as the last leaves fell from frosted limbs, sky dim and gray.  It was like he was shedding off layers, the discontent and the worry and the tension that piled up on his shoulders slowly ebbing as he moved forward, shoes kicking idly at the pavement.

Castiel knew he shouldn’t get complacent, but after more than a week of continued silence from his brothers, he had let himself relax a little more.  He wasn’t planning to push the situation, to push Uriel, because he’d already asked for far too much from him.  He’d been cutting his visits shorter, sneaking out later, refused to be too close to Dean at school without knowing for sure where his brothers were. 

It was hard, because he _wanted_ to be with Dean, especially after Dean had finally reached out to him, the first genuine expression that he wanted Castiel there.  Not out of obligation, worry, or lust, but purely because he wasn’t ready to let him go yet.  

It was small, but it made Castiel nervous in the best way, in a way he couldn’t put into words because he’d genuinely never felt anything like it before.  All he knew was that he wanted to hold onto the feeling, hold onto Dean. 

Keep them both as close as he could manage.

A hand brushing for a moment against the dark, sleek body of the Impala, Castiel moved toward the house, a warm feeling in his chest.  He pushed his way through the front door and out of the chill night air, stretching the cold out of his tired, stiff fingers as he turned into the living room.

“Hey, Cas!  You’re here early, we weren’t expecting you till after ten,” Sam said, smiling up at him from the couch, a girl no older than him seated to his left. 

The first thing Castiel noticed about her was the mess of blonde curls, and shortly after the paint chipping off her nails, a bright robin’s egg blue.  There was a canvas guitar case propped up against the arm of the couch as well, and Castiel knew it wasn’t Sam or Dean’s so it must be hers.  She sat with her feet tucked up under her, borderline hovering over Sam as she stared back at him, lovely eyes, dark chocolate brown, deep and incredibly focused.  If she wasn’t a flat out genius she must be exceedingly bright, or at the very least uncommonly intuitive.  No one who was dull had eyes like that.

“My brothers are all out for the evening, they won’t even know I’m gone,” Castiel explained, his gaze darting to Sam and shooting him a brief grin before looking back toward the girl.

“That’s great!  This is Jess, by the way.  She’s taking the couch tonight, I hope that’s okay.”  Sam looked at Castiel pointedly; a look that plainly said he _knew_ it wouldn’t be an issue because of course he’d be in Dean’s room anyway. 

Castiel’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he looked back at Sam, the perpetually tense state of his eyebrows alleviating for a brief moment as understanding caught up with him.  Sam knew, of course he knew.  Castiel knew that he knew.  They’d just never acknowledged it. 

Sam smiled in an easy way and turned back to Jess, so much warmth in his expression that Castiel was almost overwhelmed by it. 

“Dean’s in the kitchen.  Oh, shit, Cas!  You won’t believe this.  He’s cooking.”

“Dean cooks all the time, Sam,” Castiel replied gently, if not a little scathingly.  Sam rolled his eyes.

“No, real cooking.  Like with… prep and ingredients.  Just go see, okay?  Someone needs to make sure he doesn’t…” Sam faltered, and Castiel could feel the tension suddenly building in the air.

“Burn the house down?” Castiel offered with a knowing smirk. 

He was suddenly aware of the need to reinforce that things were okay between them, for a beat genuinely worried Sam would misunderstand his odd attempt at humor for judgment. But Sam, endlessly better at interpreting subtly than Castiel was, took the jibe with an easy air, smiling back at him in a grateful sort of way.  Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Yes, I’ll check on him.  It was nice meeting you, Jess.”

“You too, Cas,” she offered with a warm smile, and Castiel turned toward the kitchen, half praying Dean knew his way around a kitchen better than Sam’s attitude suggested.

What Castiel saw when he walked in was exactly what he should have expected.  Dean had the boombox from his room hooked up next to the microwave, “Bad Moon Rising” blaring through dirty static and worn speakers as Dean cut up chicken potions in uneven strips, surrounded on the counter with patches of flour and spices, a few botched and broken eggs.  Dean’s hips were swaying in time with the music, and Castiel watched him raptly as he started belting out the lyrics, vocal cords strained and out of tune.

“ _Hope you got your things together, hope you are quite prepared to die, looks like we’re in for nasty weather, one eye is taken for an eye!_ ”

Castiel moved toward him like a magnet, soon enough at Dean’s back, his face nearly pressed against the base of his neck as he pushed his hands up under Dean’s thin, soft tee.  Dean jumped at the contact, nearly dropping the knife and hissing with frustration. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, man.  Don’t sneak up on a guy when he’s got a damn ten inch blade in his hand, okay?  Rule number one.”  Castiel smirked against Dean’s warm skin before Dean turned to face him, hands reaching up to thumb at his jawline before dropping to his waist.

“You cook now, apparently,” Castiel said dryly as Dean bumped his forehead against Castiel’s absently, wide green eyes searching the features of his face.

“Sammy had a girl comin’ over, seemed like as good a time as any.  He’s been bitching about not getting a proper meal for a while, and I was starting to feel bad.”  Dean paused, his nose grazing Castiel’s cheek for a split second before pulling away to get a better look at him.  “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Of course.  What are you making?” Castiel asked, eyeing the mess and what looked to be a pot of murky oil sitting on the old stovetop, dense, slick, and bubbling up monotonously.

“Uh, chicken fingers.  Homemade.  Looked up a recipe.  It’s pretty simple actually, just some flour, garlic salt, and black pepper.  And egg.”  Dean extricated himself away from Castiel’s arms and moved two bowls into position to the left of the stovetop, a thick white porcelain dish to the right, setting a layer of paper towels on top of it.  “To soak up the oil when they come outta the pot,” Dean offered as an explanation. 

Castiel nodded carefully and moved to his side, taking care not to get in his way, watching over the whole ordeal.  Dean dipped the raw chicken cutlet into the first bowl, bringing it back out with a thin, viscous layer of yellow egg coating the surface, and then dropped it into the next bowl, a cloud of flour rising up as it hit the surface.  Once it was completely coated, Dean dropped the clumpy, flour covered meat into pot of oil, which began to spit and bubble angrily, the noise a little jarring. 

“There!  Now we just do that what, like… twenty more times and we’re golden.”

“If you don’t cook more than one at a time I think we might starve before you finish,” Castiel told him with a slightly cocked eyebrow, and Dean frowned at him dangerously, narrowing his eyes.

“You always been so feisty?” Dean asked him as he started to repeat the motions, selecting another cutlet from the pile.

“I’m… not… I don’t know,” Castiel replied, genuinely unsure of himself. 

Dean looked over at him, a wide smile on his face, equal parts unfiltered adoration and obvious amusement.  Castiel tried to grin back, watching Dean’s steady hands as he worked.  There were a few moments of comfortable silence between them, broken up only by the tedious drone of commercials on the radio. 

Once Dean was done with his current batch, he moved to the sink, and Castiel took in a quick breath as Dean trapped him between himself and the counter, closing him in on both sides as he reached out to turn the faucet on and wash his hands.  Castiel could feel his pulse in his throat as Dean’s nose brushed up against his neck, lips warm and slightly wet as he pressed a soft kiss under his ear.  Castiel turned so that his hips were flush against Dean’s and raised his hands to his broad shoulders, pulling him forward in a deep kiss. 

Dean sighed and relaxed against him, parting his lips slightly as Castiel took the bottom one between his own lips, sucking gently before letting it go again, teeth grazing the soft, puckered skin.

“Gettin’ good at that,” Dean murmured against his mouth, still less than an inch of space between them, subsisting for a moment on borrowed breath. 

Castiel stared at him as he backed up against the sink, Dean pulling his arms away and wiping his hands on the front of his jeans before he turned toward the entry to the living room. 

“Hey Sam," he called out.  "Dinner in twenty!  We’re eatin’ at the table tonight like civilized people.”

“Boooo!” Castiel heard Jess yell from the couch, sound cut off and muffled followed by rustling and laughter.

“I like that girl,” Dean told Castiel, turning and running his hand playfully through Castiel’s hair, messing it up further.  “So far out of Sam’s league he shouldn’t even be allowed to _play_ , but I hope she sticks around.”  Castiel watched as Dean moved back toward the stove as the timer went off, scooping the now crispy chicken tenders out of the pot and placing them on the dish to his right.  Sam and Jess wandered in a few minutes later as Dean readied the second batch, arm in arm and smiling. 

Castiel had never seen Sam so genuinely content, and it warmed him, knowing deep down in the core of himself that he desperately wanted Sam and Dean to have this happiness in their lives.

\--

Dean could sense the beginning of the end, and it was all because of Bohemian fucking Rhapsody. 

“Oh my God, I love this song,” Dean heard his brother’s voice as he continued working with the second batch of chicken, suddenly aware of the familiar harmonies trickling out from the corner of the room, Freddie Mercury’s distinctive voice rising up from the vague static.  Dean laughed as Sam moved toward the boombox and turned the dial, the volume rising until he couldn’t focus on anything else.

“ _Is this the real life?  Or is this just fantasy?_ ”  Sam’s voice was loud and off key as he sang along dramatically with the music, staring at Dean with a grin on his face like they’d done this a million times before.  It was the most familiar gesture they had shared in ages, and Dean latched onto it like a man dying of thirst.

“ _Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality!_ ” Dean bellowed in return, a smile spread across his face.

“ _Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see!_ ”  Jess sang, voice smooth and melodic and full of laughter as her eyes darted around the room. 

God, she even sang beautifully.  If she were four years older and not completely obviously head over heels for his kid brother, Dean thought he might have a crush on a girl like that. 

As it stood, though, he wasn’t much interested in girls at all, just Cas and his squinty blue eyes.  That knowledge was worrying Dean a little less every day, especially now as he looked over at him, eyes wide and hair a mess and staring at everyone like they had all gone a little insane.  Dean had a chicken cutlet still grasped in his hand as he bent his knees and arched his back until he was half staring at the ceiling.

“ _I’m just a poor boy.  I need no sympathy._ ”  Dean wailed out, as loud as he could manage.  “ _Because I’m easy come, easy go, little high little low._ ” He came down off his toes and stared over as Cas, a wink and a grin.  “ _Any way the wind blows, doesn’t really matter to me, to me._ ”  Cas stared at Dean wide eyed, like a deer in the headlights. 

Dean and Sam and Jess all continued to sing along, Cas’ expression growing more and more amused. 

Finally, against all odds, something cracked.

“ _I’m just a poor boy nobody loves me_ ,” Dean belted out dramatically as Sam rolled his eyes.

 _“He’s just a poor boy from a poor family_ , _spare him his life from this monstrosity,_ ” Cas sang out in a high falsetto, and when Dean turned to look back at him Cas was fucking shaking with laughter.  Dean dropped the last of the chicken into the pot and moved toward him, an eyebrow cocked as he stared at him, continuing to sing along with a wide, unchecked smile spread across his face.

Cas had a crooked smile.  Something about this knowledge made Dean feel like someone had punched him in the chest.  Terrifying in the best way.  How the hell did that even work?  He realized that while he’d seen Cas smirk, or grin, or even chuckle, he’d never seen Cas in a full body laugh, never seen his lips pulled up into a wide toothy smile, and Dean thought that if Cas had smiled at him like that the first night they met he might have kissed him right then and there because fuck him it was goddamn beautiful.

It took all his strength not to lean over and kiss him right there, settling for staring at him as Sam took up the verse, looking over at Jess the same way Cas looked at him sometimes.

God, he was so fucked it wasn’t even funny, but for once he thought maybe he didn’t really care.

As the song ended and Dean wiped his hands dry on the front of his jeans, Sam gave him a knowing smirk and took Jess’ arm as he led them both back out of the kitchen.  Dean stared after them for a while before he felt Cas brush up beside him, still with that crooked toothy grin plastered on his face, and Dean felt like he was going to fall into it, fall into Cas so hard and so fully he might never come back up again.

Dean reached out under the pretense of flattening the collar on Cas’ shirt but soon his hand trailed up to his neck, thumb over Cas’ frantic pulse as he leaned in, knocking their heads together with a wide grin of his own. 

“Don’t really smile much,” Dean said against his cheek in a grainy drawl, trying to ignore how sappy and stupid he sounded and focusing on Cas moving closer, arms closing in around his waist.  “You should do it more.”

Dean felt Cas chuckle against his skin, and for a moment he was pissed that he couldn’t see it, but he felt better when Cas placed a small kiss against his jaw, teeth dragging a bit along the day-old stubble.  “I’ll try,” he murmured easily, and Dean sighed, nosing Cas’ cheek until he turned enough to catch his lips, the contact small and chaste, making his heart race painfully.

He didn’t even think to stop himself.

\--

Sam was genuinely surprised at how good the food turned out.  Dean had been staring at him so expectantly before the first bite Sam wondered for a moment if it was even safe to eat, but when he bit into it his mouth had watered and he had made a contented noise, and the subsequent smile on his brother’s face was like nothing he’d ever seen before. 

Dean had never looked so unabashedly proud of himself. 

The four of them got along easily as they sat around the table, Jess and Dean throwing jibes back and forth at each other like they'd been doing it all their lives.  As if he needed another reason to be completely enamored with her, she could hold her own with his brother.  It was impressive, to say the least.  Once they were full, they all helped pick up the mess in the kitchen (because seriously Dean was generally a neat freak, but the kitchen looked like a tornado hit it).

Afterward Sam and Jess headed to his room, Jess having mentioned earlier that she was eager for a little more privacy.

“Keep the door open!” Dean shouted at his back, and Sam turned on him, frowning.

“Nothing’s going to happen, Dean,” Sam told him, and Dean rolled his eyes as he approached, reaching out to mess up his hair.

“Don’t care, leave it open.” 

Sam deepened his frown so much his fucking face started to hurt. “Jerk,” Sam shot at him, grinning despite himself as Dean raised his eyebrows.

“Bitch,” Dean countered before turning around and heading back to the couch where Cas sat forward, staring at the television.  Sam waved at Cas before he turned back around, Jess at his side as they made their way through the dark hallway.

Once they were in his bedroom he shut the door only to hear his brother shouting from the living room. 

“OPEN.”

Sam grimaced and cracked the door, Jess laughing behind him.

“Dude, are they always like that?”  Jess asked as she surveyed his room with mild interest.

“Dude, yes,” Sam laughed.

After maneuvering around a bit and making small talk about Sam’s collection of books, Jess and Sam lay down on his bed, face to face.  They were far enough apart at the waist that their arms didn’t brush against one another, but their knees bumped together between them. Jess was fucking beautiful, mess of hair spread out against his sheets, half of it trapped beneath her bright blue sweater.  Sam reached out to push an errant lock of blonde hair behind her ear and she sighed into the touch, her eyes wide and curious. 

“You said you would talk to me.  About your past,” she said quietly, like she was worried he might recoil.

“I did,” Sam replied, searching her face as he continued to run his fingers through her hair, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger before pulling his hand back in toward his chest.

“Now seems like a good time,” she said with a little more push, and he swallowed the stone in his throat, mouth going dry. 

Sam steadied himself, because he promised this to her, and he wasn’t going to renege on that now.  He was just worried she might run, and he desperately didn’t want her to.

“There was this girl,” he started, because that was how he started with Missouri.  At the beginning.  “Ruby.  Her name was Ruby.  We met a few months after Dean and I first moved here.  She was… beautiful,” he paused, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.  That might be too much, but it was true, and he was shooting for honesty.  “And very… very deeply damaged.  I was kind of completely caught up in her.  She was the reason I first tried it.” 

Sam remembered her, grin wide, the bite of a needle against the inside of his elbow, then a slow build to a heavy rush of euphoria.  His mouth went dry, trying to push it away, trying to remember it as something negative and not something he craved.  

“She was a year older than I was, dad an asshole junkie who treated her like dirt. She stole it from him while he was out, told me she wanted to see what the big deal was. Later she tried to push it on me, said it would make me feel good.  She pushed and I pushed back, but she was… insistent.”  He could have said no, he didn’t push hard enough. “It's so easy to get hooked. Like, at first it was just good. I didn't go through withdrawl... but I craved it. Eventually it just kinda got to a point where I realized I couldn't stop because I'd feel so, so fucking bad. I didn't get what addiction meant. I mean, I had no frame of reference. I should have... I should have thought about it.  It shouldn’t have even been an option for me.”

“You had to have a reason other than peer pressure,” Jess said gently, moving her leg until it overlapped his own, and he felt his heart thudding loud in his chest. 

“I had a lot of reasons, all of them stupid.”  Years as an outcast, even before the hospital and the rumors.  Never staying in one place long enough to really connect with people, and being ripped away from it the few times he had.  “Mostly I just... I didn’t really understand the weight of what I was doing.” 

He thought back to all the times he’d seen his dad drink a bottle dry, angry and petulant, while Dean stood with his knees locked and his shoulders hunched, just taking the brunt of John’s violent rage, a thing left over from their mother’s death, so Sam wouldn’t have to. 

“I should have,” Sam bit out, angry with himself.  Jess just stared at him, eyes full of something that might have been worry, or fear.

He didn’t want to continue, but Jess nudged him gently with her foot, and he bent his knees in closer to his chest as she moved with him. 

_Breathe.  You promised her this._

“So… um… we did that, we were both... hooked.”  Obviously, but that wasn’t all of it.  It was deeper than that, more damaging.  “Sometimes coming down hurt so bad I felt like I’d never be right again, and so I’d try to take more.”  Sam sighed and closed his eyes.  “Dean was finally happy here, he was finally finding a life outside me and Dad and all our dysfunction and I so didn’t go to him… I mean, what could I even say?  I didn’t want to stop I just wanted to feel good again.”  Sam felt as Jess tangled her legs with his further and he wanted to reach out and touch her face, drag a finger along her soft cheek, but he didn’t.  He couldn’t. 

“Where is your dad now?”  Jess asked softly, and Sam froze for a moment.  He didn’t really talk about his father, even with Dean.  Calling it a touchy subject was kind of putting it lightly.  He wouldn’t deny Jess anything, though.  He owed her that much.

“Honestly, I don't really know.  He’s a bounty hunter, spends most of his time tracking people down all over the country.  Not a hell of a lot of time for his family.  He used to come around a lot more but ever since Dean turned eighteen he’s essentially a non-entity.”

“Does he call?”

“Occasionally.”  _Not really._  

“Alright.  You can keep going,” She said, nudging his leg with hers gently.

“Yeah alright… so one night, a few months after the first hit, Ruby was over and we were completely… gone, Dean was in his bedroom with Anna, a girl he was dating at the time.  I lit my bed on fire, I don’t even remember what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking. But Ruby and I were still in it.” 

Bright heat and fear: that was all he could picture in his mind now.  Most of the information he relayed was told to him later, by the police and by Dean.  Sam could only really remember sensations. 

“It was all a haze, and it’s hard for me to piece together what happened after, but Dean got to me, the house was completely black with smoke and he shouldered his way through our front door.  He was so badly torn up from pulling me out he should have collapsed, but he tried to go back in to save Anna and Ruby.” 

Sam swallowed, his eyes stinging and his hands shaking softly. 

“I didn’t let him.  They didn’t make it out.”  Sam tried to take a deep breath, to calm himself, but he felt like there was weight strapped to his chest that he wasn’t strong enough to carry.

“Sam…” Jess whispered, not pulling away, but looking at him like she was seeing him for the first time.

“It gets worse,” he choked out, “Because Anna… Anna was Cas’ sister.  We didn’t know him at the time, in fact the reason we first met was because his brothers had it out for me.  And Cas, just being… the big hearted person that he is, forgave me.” He felt like he would never deserve that, no matter how much therapy he put himself through, no matter how he tried to make up for it. 

“He’s protected me, more than once.  Sometimes it’s all I can think about.  He’s been my friend.  And I don’t deserve it.  Not a fucking bit of it.”

Jess didn’t say anything, but she reached out and took his hands in hers, lacing their fingers together.  Sam didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t think he could speak anymore even if he did.  He was just so grateful that she wasn’t running away. 

She squeezed his hands harder, and it kept him from falling.

\--

Castiel stared down at Dean, eyes shut, arm draped around his waist, mouth slightly parted.  It was late, probably just past midnight, and he felt like he should try to sleep.  His mind was calmer than usual, still running high from earlier when Dean had kissed him for something as simple as a smile, but serenity didn’t always mean sleep. 

He rather liked watching Dean, his eyes trained on the soft curve of his chin, his broad, sloped shoulders, and strong, calloused hands that never pulled or pressed too hard.

There was that feeling again, the gentle swell of affection that grew and surrounded him, chest heavy, stomach twisted up.  He wanted to protect him, to strip away the weight of all the old scars, both physical and mental, and kiss unmarred skin between his shoulders.  Dean made him want to be better, to be fuller, while somehow content with who he already was, something he had never quite managed before.  In this place, he just fit, and he didn’t have to try.  It was both a foreign and familiar feeling in a turn.

He would voice it if he had the right words.

A noise took him by surprise, the low chord from a guitar and a soft, pretty voice.  His stomach twisted up at the sound, desperate and beautiful and so familiar it almost sent him hurdling back to quiet nights as a child pressed up back to back with his sister, her humming soft under her breath before nodding off.  Castiel pushed himself off the bed, moving Dean’s arm from his waist as he moved. 

Castiel made his way through the quiet house toward the kitchen and the noise, noticing as he passed the couch that it was empty except for a pile of blankets.  When he entered the room he saw Jess propped up against the counter with her classical guitar on her lap, practiced fingers working at the strings as she sang softly.

“ _This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization, It’s the sound of the unlocking and the lift away, your love will be, safe with me…_ ”

Jess looked up at Castiel from the floor, a small smile on her lips as she let her strumming go lax, eventually falling into silence. 

“Did I wake you up?” she asked in an apologetic tone.  Castiel shook his head and pushed down at the desperate ache in his gut.

“I don’t recognize the song, but you play beautifully,” he told her quietly.

“Thanks.  I couldn’t sleep, too wound up, music usually helps,” Castiel smiled at her warmly and moved to her side, hip pressed against the counter.

“That sounds familiar,” he told her absently, suddenly even more fond of this girl who seemed to be nudging her way under Sam’s skin.

“You like music?” she asked, leaning back, neck exposed as she looked up at him.

“It’s the only thing that keeps me… sane.  Sometimes,” Castiel told her with a strange honesty.  Somehow he felt that if anyone could understand, it would be her.  She smiled at him and began to strum softly on her guitar again.  “My sister, before she died, she used to sing me to sleep.” He looked away from her, then, caught up once again in memories that always felt like a punch to the chest, no matter how much time passed.

“You miss her a lot.”

“Yes.”  Castiel let Jess’ music wash over him, settling his nerves just the smallest amount.  “Why are you wound up?”

“Sam and I had a talk, I’m just going over it in my head.  I don’t know what to make of it all, but I know… I know he’s... I don’t want to run away just because he’s made mistakes.”  Jess looked up at him, suddenly wide eyed and appearing much younger than she had a moment ago.  “Am I crazy?”

“No, absolutely not.  Sam is… he’s… become very dear to me.  He had poor judgment in the past, but he has been trying, the entire time I’ve known him, to make up for it.  I don’t think he’ll ever stop.”  Castiel looked down at her, his face drawn taut and serious.  “I know he cares very much for you.” 

Jess grinned at that. 

“Is that the way you feel about Dean?” she asked suddenly, running her fingers through her hair. 

Castiel gaped at her for a moment, because he’d never really thought about it exactly, brushing off his distinct lack of surprise that she was aware of their involvement.

“Do you mean… do I care for him?  The way I think Sam cares for you?”  Castiel took a breath.  “Yes, I… but more, perhaps.”  He didn’t know how to put it into words, didn't realize until now that maybe he should.  He knew it wasn’t just a crush, it had turned into something more, something stronger, something that tugged right at the very core of him.

“Do you love him?” Jess offered.

_Oh._

If there were ever word that carried more weight than that one, Castiel didn’t know it.  The feeling that he had, the want, the admiration, the affection for Dean, it hung off of him with the very same weight.  It wasn't like he had no idea what love was, but he'd never been in love. He'd never even been close.

Not until now.

“I have to go,” he said slowly.  “Sleep well, and thank you.”  

Jess nodded and smiled at him, her gaze following him as he walked back out of the kitchen, heading straight for Dean’s bedroom.

\--

Dean woke to hands ghosting across his shoulders, opening his eyes to find Cas looking down at him with an odd expression, like he’d never quite seen him before. 

“Cas?” Dean reached up and touched the side of his face, dragging a knuckle down to just below his jawline. 

Cas gripped at his shoulders gently before leaning down to kiss him, and Dean twisted his fingers in Cas’ hair, confused but eager to open up to his advances.  Cas kissed him deep and slow, running his hands along the length of Dean’s arms and then up again to cup his face, the tips of his fingers pressing into his short hair.

Cas’ limbs tangled with his as they grasped at one another, Dean pulling him down, Cas kissing him fucking breathless.  Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ waist and pulled him closer, their bodies warm and pressed flush beneath the sheets.  Cas felt different, like he was trying to explain something to him but couldn’t figure out how to use his words. 

Dean broke the contact, pulling back to look Cas full in the face.  “You okay, man?” Dean asked him, pressing his thumbs up against Cas’ temple, his expression controlled except for those wild blue eyes.  Cas nodded and smiled, a touch softer and more familiar than the way he’d been laughing earlier that day, but just as wide and endearingly crooked.  It made Dean nervous in the best way, and he leaned in and kissed the edge of that smile, wanting to take some of it for himself.

“I love you, Dean,” Cas breathed against his lips, and Dean froze up, warning bells sounding in his head.

 _Too fast.  Too much._  

He felt fevered, still somewhere on the fringes of sleep, and he hoped idly that maybe he was just dreaming.  Cas never really talked about feelings shit unless seriously pressed, why would he say this?  Why now?  Dean wasn’t prepared for it, he had no idea what to do.  He was still warming up to the idea that this wasn’t _just_ friends with benefits. 

There was also something in him that held onto the confession, something warm in the midst of his panic, and he knew that he couldn’t let go because despite the fact that this was not what he fucking signed up for he didn’t want Cas to leave.  The silence stretched between them, and Dean wondered stupidly if he could just kiss him again and forget the whole thing ever happened. 

“You don’t have to say it back, I don’t expect you to.  I just thought you should know,” Cas said, voice low and grainy as he pressed his face into the crook of his neck, the brush of his hair against Dean’s chin.

Dean was at a loss, but he knew he didn’t want to lose the press of Cas’ body against his, and so he pulled him closer, their bodies shifting until they locked together like two halves of a puzzle.  He leaned in and kissed into the dark mess of hair before he let his eyes fall shut, Cas’ hand reaching up to cover the spot where his pulse beat in his neck.

\--

Morning came too soon, the way it always did.  Castiel moved from beneath the weight of Dean’s arm, leaning in to brush his nose against his cheek before going to collect his clothes.  It was the worst part of his visits, the leaving ritual.  Pulling on his slacks, his jacket, his socks and shoes.  He tried to hold onto the good feelings, to the calm he felt here.  The warmth.  It slipped away, though, in small pieces as he moved closer to the front door, away from Sam and Dean, away from this almost home.

Castiel took a moment to check on Jess, curled up on the couch beneath a pile of blankets, nothing but a shock of blonde curls sticking up from the nest.  She felt like she might belong here, too. 

Eventually he made his way outside, shutting the door behind him with a small click.  There was a nervous energy that balled up in his gut, but he ignored it.  Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Castiel walked forward in the dim morning light, air thin and brisk, his perpetual exhaustion all the more tactile on these long walks.

He made his way to the end of the street before a car turned a corner, headed straight for him, and Castiel could feel a dread piling over his shoulders at the sleek gunmetal gray frame, dark tinted windows, too-bright headlights.

_No.  Not here.  Not now._

Castiel balled his hands into tight fists in his pockets, trying to stop the shaking before the car came to a halt at his side.  He stared at the window as it rolled down, Raphael’s dark eyes peering at him dangerously from inside the car, dark black leather and frosted glass.

It looked like a pit.

“Get in.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for physical abuse, and extreme exhaustion

 

Dean woke up late Sunday morning, his arm stretched out over the space he’d unwittingly reserved for Cas.  Just another way in which Cas was nudging his way comfortably into Dean’s life and under his skin.   His chest felt tight at the memory of the night before, Cas falling open in a way he’d never really been until that moment, confessing things Dean wasn’t sure he was ready to hear.

Dean didn’t say things like that.  It wasn’t that he didn’t feel for anyone. He had Sam, and even though he could barely remember her face if not for the photo he kept tucked in his wallet he knew he desperately loved his mother.  What he felt for his father was often overridden with equal parts respect and fear, but still there was a bond.  Family was everything to Dean, it was why he’d always tried so hard to keep it together, even with his father’s continued absence.  They were a non-negotiable constant.  No matter what, there would always be something to bind them together.  It was the only thing he could trust: there had never been a time when his family had not cared for him.

Cas can, has, and could exist without Dean.

The problem with other people wasn’t that caring was hard, it was that sometimes it was too damn easy.  Too easy to get attached, too easy to get dependent, too easy to get left behind, and he had left and been left so many times that he had tried to shut that part of himself down.  It was easier in the end just to fuck, to feel and express and open up in small bursts and then shove it out of the picture once his pants were back on.  It was the only way he knew how deal with his insatiable need for contact.  He wanted other people so fucking much it ruined him. 

It wasn't that he didn't feel for anyone, it was that he felt way too much. He was desperate when he let himself love.  He didn’t like to be desperate.  

There was a part of him that was still scared of the fact that Cas could just rip it all away.

Dean sat forward and rubbed his eyes, ignoring the empty space beside him.  He’d never get used to it, falling asleep next to Cas, only to wake up alone in the mornings.  It was softened by the knowledge that he would come back, that he would come _home_.  He shouldn’t feel comfortable in that, because this was new territory, but Cas hadn’t disappointed him so far.  He wasn’t like everyone else.  Cas had given him more than anyone who wasn’t his family ever had, even if it wasn’t everything he wanted.  Everything he knew he shouldn’t let himself want. 

It wasn’t perfect, far from fucking perfect, but after the shit storm that had been his life for so long he didn’t really care.  He chose to hold on, to hope.  To trust him.

Pulling on a pair of worn jeans Dean made his way to the living room where Sam and Jess were curled up in a nest of blankets watching… oh God was his brother seriously watching _Oxygen_? “The hell is this?” he asked, voice thick with sleep as he swiped a hand across the back of his neck. 

“Ohhh it’s really awful,” Jess smiled up at him from the couch, completely cocooned in the thick comforter Sam had pulled off his bed for her to sleep under the previous night.  She looked like she had attempted to share it with Sam, but had reneged, a small corner draped over his legs as Sam burrowed under a thinner mess of sheets.   “It’s a show about women who snap and kill their spouses or boyfriends.  It’s horrible.  I love it.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow at her for half a second before Sam shot him a look that very clearly said _back off_.   Feeling generous, Dean just shrugged and laughed making his way over to the kitchen. 

“Hey where’s Cas?  Did he leave already?” Jess called after him, and for a moment he went perfectly still, feeling his shoulders slump against his will.

“Cas has family stuff, he can’t really stay past sunrise most days,” Sam answered carefully, like Dean was a skittish animal.  To his great disdain, Dean could feel two sympathetic pairs of teen eyes on his back. _Oh, for crying out loud._   Even Jess knew about him and Cas and she wasn’t even past her first visit. 

Either he’s that fucking transparent or Sam can’t keep his big flappy mouth shut.

Yeah, it’s not like it hadn’t occurred to him that Sam knew about him and Cas.  The fact that Dean seemed to go through systematic period pains every fucking time he woke up without Cas curled up in the space next to him was probably a good indicator that things were a little complicated.  Sam paid attention to that shit.

In addition to not really wanting his little brother to literally catch him with his pants down, though, to be honest he also didn’t really know how to talk about it.  It wasn’t even just the kissing other dudes thing, because if his brother was anything he was empathetic, and Dean realized a long time ago that his preferences didn’t stay as well hidden from Sam as he would have liked.  It was just… how do you define a relationship to someone else when you’re not even sure you understand it completely yourself?

On top of that, his father had drilled into his head a certain amount of fear in regard to his preferences.  He’d never actively spoken badly about homosexuals, not directly, but since before he could remember there’s always been this understanding, albeit skewed, that being gay is equal to being girly, and being girly is equal to being weak.  Living life as they had, shitty motels in bad neighborhoods where Dean needed to keep a loaded shotgun under his pillow in case anyone tried to break in while his dad was out hunting down baddies, weakness had never been a viable option.

Sammy, his ridiculous little brother with his easy smiles, unguarded empathy, and penchant for girly fucking television shows, had been spared that somehow.  Dean couldn’t help but feel a little bit jealous, and a lot grateful.

Dean let out a huff of breath and went to grab a bowl of cereal before heading off to the garage for his shift.  All this complicated bullshit was giving him a headache, and he just wanted to bury himself in the engine of whatever beauty Bobby had for him that day.  Luckily, Bobby didn’t really care so much about punctuality, mostly because Dean had always been exceptionally reliable, but he wasn’t going to pay him for hours he wasn’t working.  Dad wired money to the account from time to time, but it was sporadic, undependable, and generally for bills.

So Dean left Sam and Jess and their little weird almost cuddle party on the couch, making sure his cell wasn’t in danger of dying before the end of his shift.

By the time the sun had sunk low in the sky, he’d texted Cas a few times, commenting on Jess and Sam, the car he was fixing up, not really expecting much in return but feeling content with the knowledge that Cas might be reading them and grinning at the other end.  He liked that every now and then he was able to break through Cas’ subtle and carefully guarded expressions.

While he didn’t expect an answer, he still hoped for one.  Even if there wasn’t much to say, Cas usually responded with something small, one or two words maybe, to at least acknowledge that he’d received the message.  Dean didn’t really call him much unless it was impossible for him to text, but he was beginning to consider it now as the chill November night air bit at his skin.

“Time to wrap it up boy, I don’t want to be here later than I have ta’.”  Bobby grunted, coming up beside him to inspect his work.  “You gotta date tonight or somethin’?  You’ve been checking that phone every few minutes for the past couple hours.  I’m not paying you to stand around and look pretty.”  Dean rolled his eyes and lowered the hood carefully, swiping a hand across the glossy black surface.

“Cas isn’t answering my messages, it’s not like him,” Dean told him, picking idly at the grease under his fingernails, trying to ignore just how stupidly worried he actually was.

“Cas,” Bobby said flatly.  “Isn’t that the one who’s been hangin’ around at your place the past couple months?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered, his eyes shifting nervously as Bobby stared at him like he was just figuring something out.

“Boy can take care of himself, don’t get your panties bunched up over a few hours of radio silence.” 

Dean nodded slowly. He knew Bobby was right, but after Cas’ confession the night before Dean thought it was strange that he’d spent the next twelve hours out of contact.  Bobby reached out and patted him on the shoulder before turning away, leaving Dean alone with his cell clutched in his hand.

\--

The silence in the car felt like a tangible thing, pressing down on Castiel from all angles. He wasn’t in a hurry to be the one to cut through it.  Raphael looked over at him briefly, face dour, eyes cold and focused as he turned back to the road, and Castiel felt the panic burning a hole into his chest as they passed the road that led to their house.

They drove up to a cluster of offices, a square two story building right in the center of them.  They were all old, mostly empty except for a few small firms and offices of independent contractors, maybe one laundromat with it's signs half hung on wires above the awning.  They drove through to the mostly empty parking lot of the largest building, and Castiel could see that it was clean, despite the way it resonated with abandonment.  The brick exterior separated it from the concrete offices surrounding it.  The overall effect was off-putting, but pretty in a way.  Notable.

He barely recognized the building for what it was, at first. He’d seen it plenty of times; Zachariah had driven past it often enough on their way to and from school.  It was the type of place people used when describing directions or the landscape of the town, caught between two main roads and obviously much older than the buildings that surrounded it.  The place didn’t mean anything to them, though. They didn't know what it was, only that it was there, that it had been there for a long time.

Castiel longed for that kind of ignorance. 

Raphael led him in through the main hall, an unassuming receptionist sitting beside a phone, eyeing them both.  Castiel looked around at the stark white floor, off white walls, and textured white ceiling tiles, biting the inside of his cheek and trying not to panic. He hadn’t been here in years, and he’d never been let further in than the front room, but the rest of the building seemed to match it: nothing warm, nothing unique. 

The building reeked of order in a dangerous way. 

After passing more than a few surly looking men in suits, his brother led him to a door at the very back of the building, opening up into what seemed to be a private office.  There was a floor lamp next to an expensive looking brown leather armchair, and a nearly empty desk up against the right wall.  Other than pieces of furniture and curtains barely concealing the dim morning light, the room was perfectly bare.    Raphael never left his things lying around.  Castiel knew that from the way he kept his spaces at home.

Situated on either side of his brother’s desk stood two bodyguards who eyed him warily, and Castiel suddenly understood why his brother had chosen to take him here instead of back home.  He wanted to make it perfectly clear just how outmatched he was.

Raphael clasped his hands behind his back as he paced across the room, Castiel’s eyes following him closely.  Slowly, quietly, he forced himself to suck air in through his teeth, wondering how long this was going to last, this predatorial dance.  If he was going to get caught like this he regretted not taking a few extra minutes with Dean.  Woken him up, kissed him until they were both dizzy from it.  

Castiel exhaled slowly. It was an objectively menial issue in the grand scheme of things, but it was the only one Castiel could focus on in the pointed silence. 

He clung to memories of Dean’s body pressed flush against his own, calloused hands carding gently through his hair as he pressed his lips against Dean’s throat.  Funny how it was always the nicest memories that left you completely wrecked.

“How long have you been seeing the Winchesters?”  Raphael asked, finally breaking the silence and the last small strand of hope Castiel had been frantically clinging to.  Castiel rolled his shoulders back, locking his knees involuntarily, suddenly all too aware of the dark eyes sizing him up. 

He wanted to deny.  Raphael hadn’t actually seen Sam or Dean.  He wanted to tell him that he was insane, that he was misinformed.  Castiel wasn’t that stupid, though. 

“Castiel, I asked you a question,” Raphael’s voice was low and smooth, but there was a threat there, entwined in the calm.

“Who told you?” Castiel asked, his voice weak. He pulled his arms closer to his body, making himself a smaller target. 

Raphael let out a cold laugh. “No one had to tell me.  You may not be aware of this, but I’m not an imbecile.  I pay attention.  You’ve been away as often as you can manage, and if you thought I’d stopped caring about the Winchester boy you were _sorely_ mistaken.”  For half a second his tone had bite, anger flaring, seeping through the cracks in his careful facade.  Raphael paused for a moment, contemplating, and Castiel felt his muscles tighten, trying to keep his hands steady.  “Tell me how long.”

“Two months,” Castiel answered, not even bothering to lie. 

Had it really just been two months?  It seemed like it had to have been more, felt like infinitely less. They'd never had enough time.

“Two months,” Raphael repeated after him, testing it.  Turning it over in his head.  Raphael turned on him, then, voice firm and cold.  “What exactly possessed you?  I should have had Sam killed by now, it’s what he deserves, but I’ve been lenient because of his youth.  And you _befriended_ him, and that worthless older brother of his.”

“Dean,” Castiel spat his name out like a bullet, “Is anything but worthless.” Dean was worth _everything._  

He ground his teeth together, reveling in the strength he had found to finally fight back. He took a step forward.  Conviction coursed through him like waves of heat.  This had to end now. 

“Sam made a _mistake_ , not without horrible regret.  He didn’t come out of this unscarred and he is _not_ what you say.” 

Raphael’s eyes narrowed dangerously before he moved. Castiel held his ground ineffectively at the far end of his brother’s study.  He realized with a pang of fear that he was as far away from the exit as he could possibly be.

Raphael was nearly breathing down his neck when he spoke again, voice pinched with rage.  “I’ve got this ragged town under my thumb and I refuse to stomach _your_ blatant disrespect.  What kind of message does this send?”  Castiel eyed the two bodyguards behind his brother.  Both of them twitched anxiously like they were preparing for things to go wrong.  “Sam Winchester effectively _murdered_ a member of our family and wasn’t even _incarcerated_ for it.  The fact that I’ve let him be despite that is a mercy that leaves me vulnerable, but your involvement with him is flat out _betrayal_.”

“This isn’t about your fucking business,” Castiel spat. "These are real people." Raphael’s eyes went dark, and Castiel barely had time to flinch before Raphael threw a punch, pain splitting white hot across his lip and jaw. His brother shook his hand out before reaching up to grip his jaw painfully.  With a jerk he forced Castiel’s gaze forward.  There was movement out of the corner of his eye, and Raphael’s head snapped to the side to glare at his bodyguards.

“Back off!  I’ve got this under control!” Raphael shouted, and their movement ceased.

Castiel grimaced through the pain, refusing to back down. “Sam is a person, and _you_ don’t get to decide what he is or what he deserves,” he continued, more vehemently.  “Did you forget that it was _your own product_ in him that night?  How exactly do you deal with that?”   Castiel darted his tongue out and tasted copper.  Blood trickled down over his chin and his brother’s finger.

“So willful,” Raphael mused, his eyes flashing dangerously as he stared back into Castiel’s.  Fingers tightened around Castiel’s jaw, forefinger pressed painfully into the forming bruise.

Castiel wanted to move, wanted to break out of it, but something kept him rooted to the spot.  It wasn’t the two men staring him down from across the room.   It something so deeply engrained in him that he couldn’t give it voice if he tried.  Raphael could tear him apart; all he had to do was want it. 

“Our father left us with _nothing_ ,” Raphael spat. “I’ve done what I had to in order to keep this family afloat, from the _very_ beginning.  I’m not responsible for Sam, or any other addict out there.  I’m not a common dealer, Castiel.  At the end of the day, it’s business.”  Castiel was all too aware of his pulse in that moment, frantic against his ribs and under his brother’s thumb.  His teeth were slick with blood, and he swallowed before opening his mouth to speak again.

“Don’t pretend like you did this for other people.  You never gave any of us a choice.  Why do you think Anna was so desperate to get out?  When Gabriel finally –“ Raphael’s hand closed around his neck, and Castiel gasped uselessly. 

There was the panic again.

“I had high hopes for you, once, despite your dislike of my profession and lack of gratitude,” Raphael said conversationally, knocking Castiel’s head back against the wall and holding him there.  “You were willful as a child.  Erratic.  But I was beginning to think we’d gotten rid of that.  I was wrong.”  His brother spoke slowly, like he had all the time in the world. 

Castiel struggled to force words like _wrong_ , and _cracked_ away, but his mind swam with them.  His vision started to go white around the edges.  He strained and seized for any small intake of breath. 

“You’re… smarter than your brothers, more charismatic.  Zachariah is a good manipulator, I’ll give him that, because he does try _so very hard_ , and he is at least loyal, but you could be so much more if you weren’t so… dysfunctional.”  There was disdain in his tone at the end, deep and unrelenting.

“Morals,” Castiel choked out, voice hardly a whisper with the heel of Raphael’s hand against his jugular. 

His brother’s anger wasn’t about the panic attacks.  It wasn’t about the coping methods, or the _shutting down_.  It was about the fact that Castiel cared too much and Raphael hardly cared at all.  Raphael’s eyes went dark as he slammed Castiel against the wall.  His grip tightened on his throat painfully before relenting completely.  Castiel slumped to the floor, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his trembling hand.  His heart thudded painfully in his chest. 

“Let me get straight to the point, Castiel.  You won’t be seeing them again.  Until you comply you won’t be leaving our house.  If you won’t give me obedience willingly, then I will wring it from you.  Is that understood?”

“Bite me,” Castiel rasped, unable to make eye contact.  Vision blurred. 

To be honest, he should have expected the blow. 

Pain split from the spot where Raphael’s foot made contact with his ribs, and he readied himself for another.  It never came.  Instead he was left there crumpled on the floor as Raphael calmly made his exit.

Castiel reached blindly to his coat pocket for his phone, but he came back with nothing.  Raphael had taken it. He'd taken everything.

There was a slow, agonizing exchange between the receding adrenaline and the oncoming panic.  Castiel tried to steady himself.  He pushed up into a sitting position against the wall in the dimly lit room as the two bodyguards left him alone.  The door locked with a small click. 

His eyes shut as he rode out the wave of anxiety and guilt and fear, his chest constricting painfully, heatbeat thrumming in his ears, his throat, his fingers.  There was no attempt to cope, to fall back on accustomed practices, to warm memories or familiar songs.  There was only the dull white noise of uncertainty and claustrophobic darkness that he let himself fall into.

\--

Sam watched Jess more than he watched the television.  He was captivated by her; the easiness of her smiles, her fingers moving through her hair, her focused eyes.  She looked back at him from time to time, and he tried to hide, tried to pretend he wasn’t doing it, but he was failing miserably.  It was just that she was still there, still with him, still laughing and smiling and joking even after he’d laid everything out.  He was incredibly thankful for that.

Dean made it home around eight, and he could tell straightaway that his brother was unusually tense, but Sam didn’t question it immediately because he seemed to be trying as hard as he could to cover it up.

Not long after, the three of them drove together back to Jess’ house.  She gave them both hugs, Dean’s small and quick and Sam’s unrushed and familiar.  Sam had the hardest time letting go, but he did, giving her hand a small squeeze before she turned to go back inside. 

“So, you two official now or what?” Dean asked as he pulled out of the driveway, heading back toward the main road.  Sam stared at him for a moment before sighing and running his fingers through his hair.

“No, just friends,” he told him truthfully.  Dean didn’t seem to believe him, half a smirk and a cocked eyebrow his only response.  “Really, Dean.  I mean, it’s not like neither of us are interested, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to get into something like that.  I need to make sure I’m in a stable place before I try to bring someone else in, you know?”  Dean’s smile softened, eyes almost sad as he reached over to pat him on the shoulder.

“That’s uh, very responsible of you,” he said, a little clipped.  Sam noticed his brother's hand was cupped over his pocket where he assumed his cell phone was, finger clenching and relaxing around it.  Frowning, Sam thought of the last time Dean had been like this.  That had ended with Cas having shown up the following day with a busted hand that seemed to be somehow the least of his worries.

“Is Cas okay?” he asked, and Dean visibly tensed, one hand gripping at the wheel, the other falling away from his pocket.

“I’m sure he’s fine, just hasn’t been very talkative.  He’s allowed.” 

Sam frowned.  Dean didn’t seem to really buy into what he was saying, though.  Sam had a feeling that there was more to it, and he wondered whether it was worth it to pry.  Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself to give it a shot.  They’d avoided the subject for too long, anyway.

“Did something… happen between the two of you?” He started, tentatively, and Dean shot him a look before his face went slack, bringing a hand up to palm the back of his neck nervously.  For half a second he thought Dean was going to actually open up and talk about it, but then he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and reached over to turn up the volume, Metallica blaring from the speakers. 

Sam leaned back and shut his eyes, anything but surprised.  Dean would talk when he was ready.  If he needed to. 

Hopefully.

\--

Cas didn’t show up at school the next day, and Sam didn’t even have to ask Dean whether or not he’d heard from him.  Dean was so wound up, so on edge, that Sam was worried he might fall apart at the slightest touch.  Sam tried sending Cas messages himself, maybe they’d had a fight and Cas was just blowing off steam.  Today was the last day before Thanksgiving break so a lot of kids were cutting out for family reasons or just because they’d felt like it.  It wasn’t crazy to think that Cas had done the same thing, even though skirting responsibilities wasn’t exactly his style. But he was a teenager, he was bound to have days like that.

There was another part of him that was genuinely worried, though.  After the last time this happened, Cas had been careful about keeping in contact.  Sam struggled to maintain his calm even as he nudged in next to Jess at the lunch table, excited and beaming at him like they hadn’t just seen each other the night before.  He smiled back as she put her arm around him in a loose hug. 

“Do you think your dad is coming in for the holidays?” Jess asked, and Sam rolled his eyes and dug into his food. 

Even back when they were kids and still traveling with him, Sam and Dean had ended up alone more often than not on the holidays.  It was a lonely way to grow up, even if Dean had always tried his hardest to get something resembling turkey on Thanksgiving and presents on Christmas.  All Sam had ever wanted was a normal life with a normal family, and holidays always served to cast a harsh light on all the ways that wasn’t really in the cards for them.

“I doubt it,” Sam finally answered, and Jess smiled a little sadly at him. 

“If you want, my mom wouldn’t mind if you and Dean came and had dinner with us.  My grandparents can’t make it this year, so it’s just going to be the two of us.  It’s not much, but we’ll have a small turkey and do movie night.  Cas can come too if he wants!”  Sam smiled warmly, endlessly grateful for the way Jess so easily accepted people into her life.  So eager to share the things he’d always craved.  “Honestly, it’ll be a little lonely without some extra people.  Charlie said she might stop by later on, but it’s kinda up in the air at this point.  We’d really love it if you could come.” 

“Yeah, I’ll ask Dean.  Cas probably can’t, but if we can get in touch with him we can find out for sure.”  Sam rolled his knuckles between his fingers under the table, worry seeping in again.

“You can’t contact Cas?”

“I mean it’s probably… not a big deal or anything, but we’ve been trying to get into contact with him since last night.  We’ve been texting him and Dean tried calling, but it seems like his phone might be off.  This has kinda happened before, so we’re both a little antsy about it.”  Jess stared at him wide-eyed, and Sam tried to smile to alleviate some of the tension.  “I’m sure he’s okay,” he tacked on, just because he felt kind of ridiculous for getting her riled up as well.

“What happened last time?” she asked quietly, stilling his hands with a small touch under the table.

“We don’t know, honestly.  He never talked to me about it, and Dean only told me that it had to do with his brothers.  He was in a bad place, though.”  Sam dipped his head and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, sighing dejectedly.  “We don’t even know where he lives.  I know I’ve hardly got any right to say this, but fuck those guys.  Cas deserves better.”

“It’ll be okay,” Jess said, a bit ineffectively, but Sam took it into himself, trying his hardest to believe it.  It had only been a couple of days, after all.

\--

After half a week with no word from Cas, Dean finally cracked, finally desperate enough to come talk to him. It would have made Sam feel a little better if it weren’t for the fact that this was quite possibly a serious fucking situation.  At least he was finally doing something.

“I’m going crazy, Sammy,” Dean said quickly, both his hands tangled into his hair, eyes bright and frantic.  “Look I know… shit, I know that you know.”  Sam raised his eyebrows just the smallest amount, because he’d been expecting something but he hadn’t expected this.  For Dean to just lay it all out. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam said when his brother just sort of stopped there, gaping at him like he wasn’t sure where the fuck he was.  “What happened?”

“He came to bed Saturday night… don’t fucking look at me like that – I know you know we share a bed, alright? He hasn’t been sleeping in the damned living room for a month.” Dean backed up, running his hands through his hair again before he clasped them together around the back of his neck, taking an aimless step forward.  “He came and he told me… he said, you know, and I didn’t say it back, I fucking freaked out, but he said it was okay so I thought it was okay.”  Dean looked up at Sam, then, dropping his hands and crossing them in front of his chest, hands tucked up underneath his arms as he began to pace.  “I mean, fuck, give me a break it’s not like… I don’t have any goddamn experience here and… but I didn’t think he’d just drop out?” 

Sam's eyes widened as he watched his brother pace around the room, wondering if he might have been drinking before he’d come to him.  He didn’t smell alcohol on him, though, so if he had it hadn’t been a lot.  Maybe he was just _that_ worried. 

“What scares me more is that maybe that’s not it… maybe he’s in trouble and _we’re not doing anything about it._ ”

“I really don’t think Cas would be angry with you about that,” Sam said carefully, “Look, we know his last name, it can’t be that hard to figure out where he lives.”  He’d been thinking about it for the past couple of days, but he’d stupidly been holding out hope that it wouldn’t be necessary.

Before Dean could even open his mouth to answer, his phone started buzzing in his pocket, and Sam looked over at him, holding his breath.  Dean pulled out his phone and stared at it for half a second before he answered, his voice shaking.  “Where the hell have you-” Dean’s expression went from frustrated to distressed, fear flashing in his eyes.  “Where are you?   I can be there in less than ten minutes.  Are you-“ Another pause.  “Cas, man, are you alright? Okay.  Alright.  I’m on my way.”  Dean hung up the phone and stared at Sam.

“Go,” Sam told him, and Dean went.

\--

Castiel stumbled down the sidewalk that led into the dark alley, hand braced against the brick. It was lit only by dull starlight and streetlamps. The place he’d met Dean for the first time. 

His stomach twisted painfully as he slipped into the narrow space, breath caught in his throat, hands shaking with something that wasn’t the cold.  Castiel mindlessly touched the healing bruise that bloomed out from his once split lip.  He’d been shut in so long it was almost healed, and he cursed his brothers, the situation he was in.  The unending, suffocating madness of it.

Maybe that was him, though, just his mind reeling in the absence of everything he needed to keep him together.  He gripped his hands into tight fists, fighting to center himself, to focus.  His brothers had been watching him incessantly.  Raphael didn’t often stay home, and when he did he wasn’t exactly attentive, but the combined efforts of all three of them had kept him locked up in his bedroom, no way to make contact with anyone. For days. 

He wasn’t even sure he’d eaten or slept since Monday.

He felt weak, frayed at the edges, like he was coming apart, but at least he was _out_. 

The first night he’d been dragged home by a couple of his brother’s lackeys, shoved unceremoniously into his bedroom before they’d locked him in, or at least tried.  He could get through that lock with no issue; it was what was on the other side that kept him from leaving. The promise of retribution if he was found leaving.  Despite that, he’d tried opening his window that night only to find it nailed shut. 

The second night he’d harbored thoughts of throwing a heavy, stone statue of the Buddha through the glass.  He wouldn’t make it through, though, the window was small enough as it was and the wooden beams between the window panes would make it impossible.

He’d been so close, though.

The third night he’d just laid down in silence, trying to sleep to regain some amount of strength because he’d been starting to get delirious.  The few hours he’d gotten had done so little to alleviate the weight on his shoulders.

He didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky tonight.  For once they’d left his door unguarded, the house quiet as Castiel easily made it downstairs.  He’d found where his phone was stashed, hooked up to a charge cable, and, with that in hand, he’d pushed his way through his heavy front door.  The cold night air had served to let him know that he was really out.  It tied him to reality even as he struggled to walk straight, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.  His knees were weak and all his muscles felt like they were disintegrating, but he somehow found the strength to keep on moving.

He could feel his exhaustion creeping in around him like heavy hands weighing him down, but for the first time in four days he felt like he could breathe.  His determination gave him clarity.

To be honest, he genuinely wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but staying in that house for even another second wasn’t happening.  He thought of safe spaces and warmth and Dean, and they helped him.  It was the only thing that made sense anymore, the home that didn’t belong to him, but maybe it could, if he wanted it badly enough.  The feeling swept him up like a force of nature.

Castiel reached his hand into his pocket, and when he couldn’t close his fingers around the cell at first he realized just how bad off he was.  He gripped at it as best he could, fingers shaking and clumsy, eventually able to extricate it and hold it out in front of him.  Leaning against the rough brick walls of the alley, he fumbled to find Dean’s number.  He’d at least had the clarity of mind not to head immediately to the house, where he wasn’t sure it was safe.  There was every possibility that his brother had someone watching the house, and he didn’t want to put Sam and Dean in more danger.

He just wanted to see Dean, he wanted to fix this, wanted to get away from the taciturn, constricting walls of his home – his mockery of a home.  He’d seen enough real homes at this point to realize how ridiculous it was to use that word in regard to the house he’d grown up in.

Dean was yelling at him, but Castiel was just so fucking happy to hear his voice he didn’t even care.  “Dean,” he interrupted, his voice rough from disuse and weak from exhaustion, and shaking just like his hands.  “I need your help,” He slumped against the wall and his vision went crooked, but he rode it out.  Now wasn’t the time to panic, he just had to hold onto the dredges of adrenaline. 

“ _Where are you?_ ”

“Alley.  Alley near… Ellen’s place.” He realized he was laughing, a frighteningly empty sound as it bounced around the narrow space.

“ _I can be there in less than ten minutes.  Are you-_ “

“I’m tired I… I’m sorry,” Castiel paused, reaching up to rub his eyes because they _stung_.  “I can’t…”

“ _Cas, man, are you alright?_ ”

“I’m fine,” he managed to say without sounding completely unconvincing.  Dean’s breath was harsh and loud on the other end.  Was he panicking too?

“ _Okay.  Alright.  I’m on my way._ ”  Castiel just nodded before the line went dead and he focused on keeping himself upright.  Over. This would all be over in ten minutes.

The first few were silent, his breath mingling in the dark around him.  He closed his eyes, thought of nothing, thought of Dean, focused on the memory of his eyes or his hands wrapped around his wrists, or waist, or cupping his jaw. He focused on it until everything else fell away.  It was close to eight minutes before the phone clutched in his hand started buzzing softly. Even though there was every possibility that it was Dean, Castiel knew in his gut who it really was.  Who it had to be.  Because nothing was ever easy or simple.

His veins ran cold as he put the phone up to his ear, hand inexplicably steady.

“ _Let me make this perfectly clear, Castiel.  If you don’t end things with the Winchesters, if you don’t walk away, I will have them gutted_.” That was it - that was the breaking point.  Castiel went very still, mouth half open, breathless.  “ _I told you I would have obedience._ ” The line went dead, and a moment later he received a text, a blurry, dark photo of Dean’s home.  A promise.  It took a moment for him to remember to breathe.  Castiel barely had time to tuck the phone away before Dean rounded the corner, eyes wide as they looked him up and down. 

He was so beautiful, and so completely and hopelessly out of his reach.

Castiel should never have allowed himself to want something this badly, but then again he’d never really had a choice.   Loving Dean was like being strapped to a comet, and all he could do was hang on for dear life, hope that brightness didn’t swallow him up or throw him out into space.

That was kind of how he felt right now, flung out into void.  There was nothing to hold onto but himself, and so he tried, desperately, praying for strength.

He didn’t think he’d ever have enough for what he had to do.

\--

Dean moved forward, and Cas’ body drew taut.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked this worn down, bruised and bloodshot eyes, the color high in his cheeks from the cold.  He swayed a little on the spot, but he didn’t seem to be aware of it himself, his bright blue eyes just roved over his body, like he wasn’t sure he was really there. 

“Cas,” he tried tentatively, and Cas’ eyes focused, a small frown creased between his brow.  Dean’s eyes trailed toward Cas’ mouth and saw the yellowing bruise there, snaking down under his chin, lip still showing the evidence of being split open. 

Dean closed the space between them, reaching out his hand to touch the healing wound. Cas flinched away from him.  Dean inhaled sharply, clenching his fist, inches away from Cas' face and unable to do more than stare helplessly. He was going to kill whoever had done this, was going to rip their throat out with his fucking teeth.  “Who was it?” he asked, “What the hell happened?”

“It’s nothing.  It’s none of your concern,” Cas said. There was something cold in his tone, something distant, and Dean hated it.  It scared him.

“How the hell can you say that? Of course it’s my concern,” Dean snapped. Fuck, he wanted to wrap his arms around Cas, to keep him safe, but every time he moved to do so, Cas recoiled. That was enough to keep him still. 

He was suddenly so unsure of himself; Cas had never cut him off like this before.

“Dean,” Cas paused, puffs of chilled breath floating in the air, stark as the light from the street lamps caught it.  Dean wanted to stop him, press closer, kiss him, steal whatever words were about to come out of his mouth because nothing good could come from them, and…  

“It’s over,” Cas said.  “I can’t do this anymore.”

_No._

“What,” Dean breathed, almost soundlessly.  Cas wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Dean’s heart throbbed in his throat.  "No," he said, "no." Something... something had to be wrong, because this couldn’t be what Cas called him here to tell him.  There was no way.  It didn’t make any fucking sense.  He wouldn’t fucking take it.

“I want to break up.”  Stark.  To the point.  Going straight through him.

“I don’t believe you,” Dean said, voice shaking.

Cas just looked at him, eyes cold, arms pin straight down at his sides. There it was. Always that voice telling him he wasn’t good enough, that he would never be good enough and this would always, _always_ happen, no matter what.  This was the background noise of his entire fucking existence.

“Why would you say that? Why the hell would you tell me you fucking _loved_ me if you wanted to break up?”  Dean stared at him, eyes wide, mouth dry.  “Talk to me, Cas.  _Please,_ ” he begged, open and raw, hoping it would _do something_. 

“There’s nothing else to say, Dean.”

“Don’t you _trust_ me?”  Dean asked, trying to crack through that awful, calm mask Cas insisted on wearing.

“Dean,” Cas breathed, almost emphatically, and Dean stared at him in disbelief.  Every time.  Every fucking time he asked Cas never told him anything and he was sick of it.  How the hell could he just use words like _love_ and then do something like this?  It was so fucking backwards it made his head spin.

“No, screw you. This has gone on for too goddamn long.  You won’t tell me shit, you’re always _shut off_.  Damnit, you talk to _Sam_ more than you talk to me.”  Dean stepped forward, back into Cas’ space, trying to meet his eyes.  “What, you think I can’t handle it?  That I can’t understand?  Fuck you!”  Dean had to stop himself from grabbing hold of Cas’ shoulders, from trying to shake him out of this, because he couldn’t give him up.  Not now.  “Stop hiding from me, Cas.  I can fucking _help_ , at least let me _try_.”

For a second, a whole fucking second he thought he saw Cas’ eyes flash with something:  pain, uncertainty, a crack in his resolve.  And then it was gone.

“Was it your brother?  Please just _tell me_ , and we can figure this out together,” Dean pleaded. He was walking a tight line between anger and fear, and he didn’t know if he wanted to be right, but he needed Cas not to mean what he was saying. 

“What could you do?” Cas asked cruelly, his hands tightening into fists.  Then he laughed, a soft pitched, empty thing, like a gross approximation of what a human laugh should sound like.  “Who the hell are you?  To think you’d stand a chance against my brother, against any of them?” Cas’ voice was so cold.  “I won’t have it, I won’t see you fail.  I don’t want it.”

“You don’t get to make all these decisions on your own.  You’re not allowed.” _Don’t leave me behind,_ _don’t leave me useless._

“I don’t know who we thought we were kidding.  This was always a bad idea.”  Cas squeezed his fists one more time before letting them fall open, slack, the tiniest sign of defeat.  “The truth is,” Cas said, his voice cracking just a little, dangerously, eyes half shut and glossed over.  “I just don’t want you.”

Dean felt it like a punch in the gut, and the breath went out of his lungs at the impact.

“Really,” Dean whispered, hands shaking.  "Okay." He inhaled slowly, painfully. “It never meant shit to me, you know.” He was lying through his teeth, but he didn’t care.  He wanted to hurt him, make him feel as bad as he felt.  It was childish and petty, but they weren’t playing on even footing anymore.  He just wanted to lash out.  If Cas could just throw it all away, then he could, too.  Dean dug his nails into the palm of his hand.  He wanted to rip something up, tear something down, feel anything but this.  “I acted like it was more than that, but it wasn’t.  It didn’t mean anything; you were just a warm body.”

“Good,” Cas said quietly, and Dean hated him in that moment. How the hell could he be so fucking indifferent? “It’s better that way.” Cas turned, back stiff and arms curled around his waist as Dean watched him begin to leave. 

“ _Cas,_ ” Dean said softly, feeling his eyes burning, completely and utterly overwhelmed and a breath away from breaking down right there.  He didn’t know what else to do but beg, and he hated begging, and he hated himself for not being able to stop it.  Cas just stared back him, eyes glossed over, tired, bloodshot, empty. 

“Goodbye, Dean,” he said, and he turned around, walking back down the dimly lit alley, away from him, away from everything.  Dean would have run after him if he could convince himself that maybe, somewhere deep down Cas wanted him to, but instead he slumped, muscles going tense as he felt warm tears turn to ice on his cheeks.  He wiped them away with a trembling, numb hand, but more took their place, and soon his whole body was shaking, quietly breaking into pieces, and he couldn't stop. 

No matter what he did, he’d always end up here.

\--

Castiel barely made it around the corner before he collapsed against the side of the building, wrapping his arms around his body, shivering as the cold bit through him, bone deep with ragged edges.  He took a shallow, insubstantial breath, his body slumping uselessly until he was on his knees, too exhausted to push himself up again. He wasn’t even sure how he’d made it through. He would never, ever let his brother touch them. Either of them.  He wanted to rip his skin to pieces, wanted to rip _Raphael_ to pieces, but he couldn’t.

He’d just torn apart every good thing he had.

He reached a hand into his coat pocket and clumsily grasped for his phone, flipping it open to send a message to his brother.  Let him know he’d won, finish this now before his absence made things worse.

_It’s done.  I ended it.  Don’t touch them._

His thumb shook over the send button, anxiety and anger and fear mingling in his gut so viscerally that he thought he might start heaving over the iced ground.  It wouldn’t matter, there was nothing left to purge.

He didn’t receive a reply in the end.  His brother would have been waiting, and what else was there to say?   Good boy, very clever, do as you’re told.  Always do as you’re told.  Castiel just touched his forehead against the cold brick, eyes shut.  He might stay here, out in the thin, icy winter air, and let himself drift in and out. He couldn’t even care anymore. 

There just wasn’t enough of him left.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for drinking as a coping mechanism, and low self worth

Castiel sank, limbs heavy.

The minutes dragged on like days, the cold slowing him, the tips of his fingers numb.  The wind went through him, vision crooked, the only concrete thing the ground under his knees.  He didn’t even have the energy to be anxious, his mind tacky, regret pooling in the back of it, anger too, like tendrils of flame and clouds of smoke. 

He would move, if he could manage it.  He would take the knife in his jacket pocket and shove it up against the knot in the center of his brother’s throat.

The thought made him smile.

He lost himself in memories of Dean’s arms around him, chest hot against his cheek.  He was protecting him, though, and what little lucidity he clung to was centered on that.  He should have never put either of the Winchesters in danger in the first place, his presence in their lives was reckless.  He had never been as completely and wholly selfish as he had been after meeting Dean. 

He’d craved that affection, the little touches, his smile.  He’d made the choice to walk back to that house to sit between Sam and Dean on their worn, comfortable couch, knowing that it wouldn’t last.  That it couldn’t.  There was too much bad blood, his family too dangerous.  Despite that, though, he’d tried, made himself a part of their lives, carving out a new life in the process.

And now it was gone. 

Castiel took a deep breath, the thin air icy against his lungs.  He had to do something, but he was so starved, so exhausted, so worn down. 

“Well, that was a nasty breakup,” Castiel heard a female voice in front of him, tone dripping with amusement.  He grimaced and looked up, his vision blurry and unfocused, dizzy from the movement.

“You saw that?” he asked, concentrating.  He eyed her strange outfit with caution.  She had on knee high leather boots over thigh high stockings, a small skirt tight against her hips as she dug her hands into the pockets of her fitted leather jacket.  This woman was either senseless or temperature numb.  She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him.

“Put on quite a show for him, didn’t you?  I don’t usually eavesdrop, but I haven’t had cable in a while,” she smirked, her dark, wavy hair falling over her shoulders as she leaned down, extending a hand. 

Castiel stared at it, unblinking for a moment before letting her help him to his feet.  He nearly collapsed again once he was standing, bracing himself against the building. 

“Shame that you’re interested in the flat-chested, bow-legged type.  I could show you a pretty good time,” she smiled in a sultry way, hips swaying just a little.  Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down.  “For a price.”

“I’m seventeen,” Castiel said flatly.  The woman rolled her eyes at that, backing up a pace, unresponsive.  “What do you _want_?” he asked, frustrated.

“Well, I didn’t want you freezing to death on my block.  Not exactly good for business.”  Castiel grimaced at her before turning to press his back against wall, letting more of his weight fall against it.  His legs felt so stupidly weak.  He just needed a few minutes, a few hours.  Get his head right again so he could figure out what to do next.  “The name’s Meg, by the way.”  He cocked his head to the side, and she smiled.  “Since you asked, _Cas_.”

Castiel sighed, burying his face against his palm.  That name on a stranger’s tongue made his chest twist up painfully.  It had always been endearing, familiar, warm, but now it sounded wrong. 

“It’s Castiel,” he said, not really knowing why it mattered. 

His distress must have shown on his face, because when he glanced up Meg was giving him a simpering look, arms crossed in front of her chest.  He tried to harden his features. 

“So what, did he cheat on you?  You kind of ripped pretty boy apart over there.”  Castiel stared at her, the guilt edging back in.  Dean would be fine, he’d be better without him.  He had to be.

“It was necessary,” he said simply, chancing a small step forward only to fall back against the wall.  He groaned his displeasure, head swimming.

“Ooooh you _are_ a cold one, aren’t you?” she laughed bitterly.

“Why are you still speaking to me?” Castiel snapped, turning to face her again, ignoring the way the sidewalk seemed to stagger beneath his feet.  “None of this is your concern.”

“I can be curious, it’s not a crime,” Meg said, actual concern flashing in her dark eyes before she rolled it away, lips pinched together.  Castiel wondered for the first time how he must look.  Bedraggled, exhausted, unsteady.  He took a deep breath, vision kinked.  As he gripped the rough brick beside him, he became acutely aware that he could no longer feel the bite of cold. 

The world suddenly shifted sideways. 

“Alright, do I need to call you a cab?”  Meg asked.

Castiel tried to shake his head, but the sensation of falling was overwhelming.  He tried to shut his eyes against it, but the feeling persisted, grew.  He felt like he was being tossed and pulled around like a rag doll. 

Castiel attempted a step forward, but he couldn’t keep track of his limbs, his head lolling about uselessly as he struggled to find his footing.  There was a chasm between his head and his feet, an impossible distance that stretched and thinned as he brought his hands toward his face, missing by inches or by miles, he couldn’t be sure.  It was like being tied and blind in a whirlpool, the walls and the ground pulsing and breathing around him. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but instead he heaved wretchedly, dry but violent as his stomach turned.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” was the last thing he heard before he hit the pavement.

\--

Sam tried to sleep, tossing and turning until his long legs were tangled up in his sheets.  He had his cell phone clutched in one hand, up against his ear, so that if Dean finally _called him back_ he wouldn’t miss it. 

It had been four hours since Dean had run off to find Cas.  That was well fucking past a reasonable amount of time.

Sam took a deep, stuttered breath and squeezed his eyes shut, his heartbeat deafening. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed out.  “Where the fuck are you?” 

His question was met with silence, and so he pulled his limbs closer to his body, as if making himself smaller would somehow center him. 

He felt the dark pull of sleep, enveloping him before a crash jolted him awake, his hands tightly fisted and his breath coming out in heavy pants.  The loud crash was followed by a slam, the hinges of the front door creaking.  Sam pushed himself out of bed and headed for the door, mind too clouded with sleep and panic to assume it was anyone other than his brother.  A burglar wouldn’t make that much damn noise, anyway. 

When Sam opened the door Dean was already standing there in the dark, back pressed against the wall opposite his bedroom, eyes vacant and lips pulled into a tight grin. 

“Heeeyya, Sammy,” he drawled, and Sam glanced down to Dean’s hands, fingers wrapped around the neck of a half empty bottle of whiskey.  Sam moved forward into the hall, fingers twitching.

“You’re drunk,” Sam bit out, seething.  His eyes burned from exhaustion, but he straightened up, gaze trained on his brother.  Here he was trying to kick his own addiction and Dean had just fucking… he’d thought Dean was getting _better._

“You were always th’ smart one, I’ll give ya that,” Dean laughed, the sound hollow.  Sam stared at him, breathing unevenly, balling his hands into fists.  He swallowed his anger, let it seep out as he stared forward.  Dean’s eyes went hazy, as if he were dangerously off balance, and Sam reached out to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder.  Dean recoiled like the touch would shatter him.  “Don’t,” he whispered, his grin breaking around the edges as he raised the bottle to his lips to take a long swig.  Sam wanted to knock the drink out of his fucking hand.

“Jesus Christ – Dean, put down the damn bottle and _look_ at me.” Dean’s gaze darted to his for half a second before he pulled away again.  “You’ve been gone for _hours_!  What happened?  Where’s Cas?”  Sam asked, fighting to pull his own hands back toward his body, because if he didn’t he might shove his brother out of frustration. 

Dean’s smirk faltered, his eyes going soft for a moment before he reached his free hand up to rub at them absently.  When he pulled back they had gone red and watery, his lips trembling slightly. 

“Dean, where the fuck is Cas?” he asked again, putting more heat in his voice.

“Hell if I know.  Ya know, h-hell if I _care_ ,” Dean said, stepping forward into Sam’s space, fingers gripping at the bottle so tight his knuckles had gone white.  “We… we’re done.  Us.  We’re done’sa _fuck_ it.  M’done givin’ a shit.”  Sam blanched.

“ _What_?” he breathed.  “Dean, what did you do?” 

Sam realized as soon as the words were out of his mouth that he’d fucked up, the look his brother gave him like a punch in the chest.  Dean’s jaw set, eyes gone hard, every muscle in his body taut.

“ _Me_?” Dean bit out angrily, the forced cheer completely wiped away.  “What th’ fuck did _I_ do? _He_ ended it.  _He_ did _._   _Not_ me.” It was something that wasn’t quite anger.  Something baser, more feral.  Dean looked at Sam as if he was the last real thing in the world, and Sam just couldn’t understand.

“That doesn’t make sense, Dean, Cas is completely –“

“What?” Dean spat.  “Cas’s _what_?  In _love_ with me?” Dean’s limbs shook as he ground out the words, and Sam pressed his lips into a hard line.  Dean said it… said ‘love’ like an obscenity, like he couldn’t even wrap his head around the concept of it.  Like it meant too much and _nothing_ at the same time. 

There was a long pause where Sam stared at his brother.  Earlier it had sounded like Cas was in trouble.  It didn’t make sense that Cas would call Dean out there like that to end a relationship that, as far as Sam could tell, made both of them better.

“Did he tell you why?” Sam finally asked, because he wanted… _needed_ to understand.  Dean just looked up at him, eyes wide before going cold.  He shrugged, struggling to keep himself steady.  “He had to have a reason, Dean,” Sam said gently.

“He’s a cold, soulless sonofabitch,” Dean said, his voice pinched, and lacking conviction.  “Doesn’t… doesn’t care.  Can’t care.”  Sam frowned.  There was a part of him that flinched at that, protective over Cas.  He was even more protective of his brother, though, and so he bit his tongue.  It was just that Cas had always been… almost overwhelmingly bighearted.  He couldn’t believe that Cas could be what Dean said.  

He didn’t think Dean really believed it, either, and that probably made this infinitely harder.

Suddenly, Dean turned and raised his arm, flinging the bottle of whiskey across the hallway where it crashed against the back wall, the pungent smell of dark liquor making Sam momentarily dizzy, memories of their father flooding back.  Dean only broke things when he was angry, scared, or losing control.  Sam realized that in this moment he might be all of those things at once. 

Dean looked toward the broken bottle, unmoving, dark lines trailing down and pooling against the carpet, eyeing every shard of glass, some now embedded in the plaster.  Then he stumbled back and leaned his weight against the wall behind him, shaking hands threading through his hair.  Sam watched him, feet away, frozen, back to the open door of his bedroom.  The space between them screaming with silence.

“What’s wrong with me?” Dean whispered, his voice breaking.  ~~~~

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Dean.”

“Really,” he said, his hands opening and closing into tight fists as he struggled to stand upright on his own.  “I was tryin’, okay?  I… fuck I don’t know… C-Cas… he don- doesn’t… I…  am I really that big of’n asshole?”  Dean stared at him, mouth half open for a breath before he spoke again, his voice low and pinched, _“_ That _no one_ I give a shit about can talk ta’ me?” 

Sam went cold, raising a hand to scratch at the inside of his elbow absently as he met his brother’s frantic, bloodshot eyes.  When he realized what he was doing he made a fist, shoving his arms pin straight down by his waist. 

“Fuck I can’t… I can’t think straight I just… I’m so angry.” Dean stared down at his hands, shaking so hard Sam was afraid he was going to collapse.  “I tried.  I tried and it’s n-never fuckin’ enough.  Not for Cas, not for Dad, not for _you_.  I can’t… I can’t – I’m not…”

“What the hell are you talking about?  You’ve _always_ been there for me,” Sam said, moving forward and grabbing Dean’s shoulders, extending the lifeline, trying his hardest to keep his brother from falling apart.  He didn’t flinch away at the contact like before, but he turned his head, avoided Sam’s eyes.  Dean had been there, been trying to keep them all together for as long as Sam could remember.  For his entire life.  It wasn’t Dean’s fault.  It would _never_ be his fault. 

There was a long breath, a pointed silence before Dean looked up at him, his expression somewhere between pain and anger. 

“Then why’d you do it, Sam?” he asked, and the walls seemed to contract around him.  Sam felt his heart drop to his stomach, the gross physicality of it making him weak.  “Why th’ fuck would you do something s’fucking stupid?  Was it _that bad_?  Was I doin’ sucha piss poor job you had ta’ turn to… that?”

Sam stared at him for a moment, breathless.  “Why do you drink, Dean?” he finally asked.  It was a simple question, but his tone was hard.

“Nah uh.  Don-… don’t make this about me, Sam.”

“Why the hell not?  You think this is any different?  You’re hurting yourself; you’re hurting the people who _care_ about you.” Dean flinched at the words, like the idea that people actually cared about him was bizarre.  “I should fucking know, I’ve _been there_ , Dean!”  Sam’s voice broke, and he had to press his lips together to steel himself.  He had to breathe. 

“It wasn’t you’re fault. I f-fucked up,” Sam said quietly, his mouth dry, voice shuddering.  “I fucked up.  It was my mistake.  No one else’s.  Don’t think this was your fault.”  Dean slumped forward slightly, weight pressed against Sam’s palms.  Sam felt Dean’s fingers wrap around his wrists, vice-like, almost painful, but he knew it wasn’t meant to be.  Dean just needed something to ground him.

“Jus’ tell me _why_ ,” he said, his eyes unfocused, the strength in his hands on a rapid decline before he gripped Sam’s wrists even tighter.  “Why di… didn’t you fuckin’ _talk to me_ when it got bad, man.  That’s what I’m supposed to do, what m’ here for, take care a’ you.” 

Sam paused, concentrating with everything he had on Dean’s grip, on the point of contact between them. 

“I don’t know,” he finally whispered.  “I didn’t want help.  I didn’t want to…”  Sam sucked in a breath and tried to steady himself.   “I didn’t want to let you down.”  Sam bowed his head, breath stuttered.  Regret settled over his shoulders, thick and heavy.  “I did anyway.”  Dean let out a slow breath, his head knocking against Sam’s.

“Fuck, just… I’m tired,” Dean said, resigned, his shoulders going slack.  Sam looked at him, but Dean wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

Instead of pulling away, Sam just shook his brother’s shoulders gingerly, feeling Dean’s hands fall away from his wrists as he did so.

“Yeah man, sleep it off,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else.  Dean met his gaze, then, his eyes fighting to focus.  God, he looked so lost.

Sam pulled his brother into a hug, having never felt more hopelessly unequipped to deal with anything in his life.  He tried to ignore the way Dean muttered against him, a litany of meaningless, fragmented words, Cas’ name pinched between them.  His own name, raggedly.  Quietly.

Once they parted, Sam walked his brother to his bedroom, Dean kicking off his boots and falling against the sheets.  His eyes were half open as he curled in on himself.  Bloodshot, watery, vacant.  Sam didn’t know what to say, so he just watched his brother, the way Dean had always watched over him.  His whole life.  The best he could.  He watched until Dean’s eyes finally fell shut, watched until his breathing slowed, watched until his body went slack, and then, finally, feeling his own exhaustion creep up on him again, he slowly turned away. 

Sam went back to his room, falling into fevered sleep moments after his head hit the pillow, phantom flames licking at his legs, a scream echoing in his ear.

\--

The first sensation was the burning.

Castiel felt it like a sharp ache, like a limb waking up, nerves pinched.  It was warm, though, different from before, and so he chased it, tucking his legs up against his stomach.  He was mildly aware of voices, but they were dull, like he was hearing them through a pool of water.  Castiel reached a hand out, then, for a body that should be beside him.  He groped for bare, broad shoulders; short, soft hair.  A neck, a cheek, an arm usually slung around his waist.  Instead he found empty space, and slowly reality sunk over him. 

“Dean,” he heard himself whine, pulling himself up toward the surface, the voices clearer, more fevered.

He wanted the push himself back into darkness.  It would be so easy, waking only a promise of more exhaustion, more regret, more emptiness.  He could imagine Dean slotted against him, trailing a finger down the nape of his neck to touch his collarbone, his lips pressed into his hair.  Dean would murmur that he wanted him, that he was happy.  That this had always been something more.  Something worth protecting. 

_It never meant shit to me, you know._

Castiel felt himself shudder, his fingers gripping at the sheets.  Everything suddenly too real.

“- finally waking up,” he heard, clearly, whiskey breath and a thick accent sending shivers of repulsion down his spine.  “Hello, darling.”

Castiel opened his eyes, the light too bright.  He glanced around, momentarily ignoring the figure that stood over him.  The walls were red brick, the floor a dirty hardwood.  There were posters hung up everywhere, Indigo Girls and Joan Jet, a mess of clothes scattered around the floor, a few Chinese takeout containers on the ledge of a floor to ceiling window.   He realized he was laying on a worn futon, the sheets under him too large for the mattress, a dirty gray. 

“Where am I?” Castiel asked, head pounding as he tried to push himself up.  His stomach felt like it was caving in; the exhaustion dulled enough to allow the sensation to run him over.  He blinked up to the figure, and he remembered why he’d had such a kneejerk reaction to that voice.  “Crowley,” he growled, sitting forward so fast his vision spun, feeling sick. 

He reached for his knife but found that he wasn’t wearing his coat, and Crowley ‘tsk’ed at him, patronizing.

“We keep meeting like this,” he smiled, crouching down next to him, meeting his eyes.  “No need for theatrics.  I’m not planning to hurt you.  Murder, torture… they’re a bit too messy for my taste.”

“Leave him alone, Crowley,” Meg growled at him from the next room, the sarcastic drawl a little less pointed than before, replaced with a genuine sort of disgust. 

Was she the one who’d brought him here?

“No one asked you, _whore_ ,” Crowley spat back.  Castiel stared at him, indignant.

“Don’t call her that,” he threatened, his voice pinched and deep, still a little too sleep drunk to sound particularly menacing.  Crowley smirked and cocked an eyebrow, a low throaty laugh.

“It’s her profession,” he grinned, rolling his eyes.  Meg stalked into the room at that, coming up behind Crowley to grip him by the collar of his shirt.  She pulled up so forcefully he lost his balance, knees knocking against the hardwood floor, face red, eyes bugged out and bloodshot. 

“Call me that again, pig, and I’ll carve it into your skin,” she purred dangerously, Crowley trying to retain some measure of composure while on his knees at her feet.

“Is that a promise?” he choked out.  “What shall we use next? A scalpel?  Something more exotic?”  Meg frowned, tightening her grip so that all he could do was rasp ineffectively.

“Or I could tie you up and leave you to stew in your own misery for a few hours,” she said, Crowley’s eyes going wide.  Meg let go of his collar, clapping him hard on the cheek a couple times for good measure.  Crowley didn’t move from the spot, but he reached his hands up to smooth down his shirt.  The tips of his ears had gone red, eyes dilated.  Castiel frowned. 

Interesting.

Castiel braced himself against the rickety table to the left of the futon, his legs unsteady beneath him.  He had to get out of here, had to get back to his house before Raphael sent someone to look for him, or worse, to look for Dean or Sam.  He couldn’t risk it.  He didn’t even know how long he’d been out. 

Castiel straightened his back and ran a hand through his hair, Meg rounding on him so fast he startled. 

“Wooah steady there, tiger.  You’re not leaving just yet,” she said.  

Castiel cocked his head to the side, the motion sending a small pulse of pain down the back of his neck.  He ignored it, pushed it to the back of his mind like everything else.  There was no way he was going to let either of them keep him here.  “Crowley tells me you’re a _Novak_ ,” Meg said dangerously, placing a hand on his shoulder.  Castiel frowned at her, shrugging it away.  

“Look, I reeeally don’t need you running off to tell your brother anything that might give him a reason to come sniffing around.  My livelihood depends on it, you understand?”

“And mine,” Crowley bit, pushing himself off the floor and taking a hard pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. Meg rolled her eyes, grimacing back at him.  Crowley just shrugged back at her, biting a cigarette between his teeth and running a hand through his short, widow’s peaked hair.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Castiel said, stiffening and catching Meg’s gaze.  Meg raised her eyebrows, still situated directly in his path, unmoving.  “I don’t care.”

“Huh.  Crowley seemed pretty convinced you were your brother’s lap dog,” she said, glancing over to Crowley who was pointedly ignoring them, striking a match, the flame flaring up and hissing before he brought it up to the tip of his cigarette.  Clouds of smoke billowed out between the edges of his lips, Castiel’s nose wrinkling reflexively.

“I won’t help him,” Castiel said through clenched teeth.  Castiel felt a shiver of disgust course through him, his brow furrowed, mouth in a hard line.  Meg just grinned up at him, Crowley finally taking an interest in their discussion.

“Well, this is a stimulating development,” Crowley smirked, pinching the cigarette between his fingers and flicking ash on the floor.  “Your brother doesn’t exactly appreciate disloyalty.  I should know.”  He shot Castiel a wry smile as he stuck the cigarette back between his lips. “Tell me, what did he do to incur your wrath?” 

Castiel tried to bite down the anger that welled up in him at that, but the events of earlier that night were still fresh in his mind.  Like open wounds.  He stood straighter, tightened his muscles, locked his joints. 

“That’s none of your concern,” Castiel said, unable to keep his voice steady, strained and frustrated.  Meg looked at him like she was just realizing something, her eyes going soft before she turned on Crowley, hands braced against her hips.

“Get out, I need to talk to him alone,” she said.  Crowley let out a loud huff of air and a cloud of smoke, rolling his eyes.  “I could kick you out if you prefer.”

“Bollocks.  I need a drink, anyway,” he relented, backing out of the room and flicking the cigarette butt to land at Meg’s feet.  She scowled and bent over to pick it up, stealing a drag before dropping it into an ashtray on the dresser behind her.

“Charming,” Castiel said, balling his hands into tight fists as he watched Meg relax slightly, crossing her arms in front of her chest. 

“No, he’s not,” she said simply.  “He’s just bitchy because I had to cancel playtime.” 

Castiel took a deep breath, trying to resist the urge to wrap his arms around his torso, the emptiness dull but persistent.  His hunger made him feel faint.

“Is this your apartment?  How long have I been here?” he asked, and Meg looked up at him, a small grin on her face.

“Yeah, it’s mine.  And a few hours.  Crowley threw a _fit_ when he figured out who you were,” she laughed.  “It’s not even past three, you’re fine.”  Castiel felt his muscles go lax at the knowledge.  He should have gone home immediately, but no one would be awake at this point.   He had a little more time.

“Thank you… for helping me,” he said, trying out a smile.  It felt so foreign against his mouth, his lips dry and chapped.  He darted out his tongue to wet them.

“Don’t mention it.  Seriously,” she responded, dropping her arms, expression going strange.  “This is about your boyfriend, isn’t it?  Dean.”  Meg stared at him, eyebrow arched as Castiel looked back, his stomach twisting up.  “It actually makes sense.  You know, the reason you seem to want your brother’s head on a pike…” Castiel just kept staring at her.  There was something missing, some knowledge gap.  She spoke to him with a strange familiarity that he couldn’t understand.  “You don’t remember me walking you here, do you?”

Had he lost time?  The thought scared him, ran deep.  It hadn’t happened since he was much, much younger.  His head ached when he tried to think back, to fill the gaps in his recollections.

“Don’t freak out or anything, you were pretty damn out of it,” she said, pursing her lips in a small grin. “You just kept going on and on about how you _didn’t have a choice_ , and that it was _for his_ _own good_.  God, wow the apologies.  You also went into some pretty excruciating detail about the curve of his –“

“I get it,” Castiel said, the tips of his ears going hot.  “And yes, my brother was involved.  There’s very little I can do about it, though.  Why do you care?”

“I don’t.  Really.  It’s just that your brother is a piece of work, I think you probably know that pretty damn well at this point.  We could help each other, _Castiel_ ,” she said, almost seductively.  The same way she had propositioned him earlier that night.  He looked her over, suspicious.

“You want something from me,” Castiel said.  She rolled her eyes and motioned with her head to the next room, where Crowley was probably throwing back shots of scotch, lighting up another cigarette. “If you mean help Crowley then you’re crazier than I thought you were,” he said, exasperated. “Just because I won’t tell my brother anything doesn’t mean I want any part of what _he’s_ planning.”

Meg shrugged and grinned, rocking back on her heels, stocking covered feet slipping a little against the floorboards.  “He may be a prick, believe me… _I know_ , but he could tear it all down.  He’s ambitious enough.  And your brother would be left with nothing.  Tell me you wouldn’t just love to see that, tell me you don’t want to knock him down a few pegs just like the rest of us.”

‘Tempting’ was a word for it.  Stripping his brother of backup, of all his control, all his power.  He wouldn’t have the equipment to threaten him anymore.  Not the same way.  On his own, Castiel didn’t have the power to take down his brother.  That much was perfectly clear. 

“What’s your angle?  Where do you fall in all of this?” he asked, because he needed to know.

“Me?  I just want to protect what’s mine.  Your brother doesn’t care much for freelancers, Castiel.  He can’t control them,” she said.  Castiel nodded, considering it briefly before shoving it down. 

“No,” he said simply, and Meg frowned at him.

“Have it your way,” she said, turning to face the exit.  “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

She didn’t press him after that, leading him out of the apartment to an old staircase the spilled out into a familiar street.  He made his way home, slowly, lightheaded, the emptiness in the center of him threatening to send him to his knees. 

He persisted, because he had to.  Because he didn’t have any other option.  To give in, to concede to his brother was the only way to keep them safe, and that was his only goal.  He could go back to the way things were before, he had managed.  He would making himself numb, make himself forget.  Make himself a stone.

He’d been running away from the inevitable too long, anyway.

\--

Dean shuffled around the kitchen in a haze, hands swiping against the edge of the counter, eyes to his feet.  He reached for a beer, flicking the already dislodged cap to the floor, throwing back half the bottle in one long draft. 

He had woken up to pain, first only physical, which he could handle, and then something deeper, an aching weight against his lungs, which he really couldn’t.  He’d wanted to drink the entire fucking night away, drown in it.  Wake up without the imprint of Cas in his head.   Wake up without the smell of him still entrenched in his goddamn sheets. 

Wake up without everything being a constant reminder that he was alone. 

The booze hadn’t dulled shit. He could still remember the previous night with such alarming clarity, the cold tone of Cas’ voice, the vacant expression in his eyes.  The way there was still a part of him that didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t believe it. 

It was hell, having to fucking remember.

_The truth is, I just don’t want you._

He remembered, too, the way he’d clutched at his brother like a child, blind drunk, bringing up crap he’d rather keep buried.  Sam’s answers just making him feel emptier.

Sam had come to see him that morning.  Early, before he was even completely sober, head already pounding a tattoo against the inside of his skull.  Sam had tried to drag him out of bed, wanting him to come to Jess’ house for Thanksgiving dinner, a prospect that made Dean’s stomach turn.  Sam was fussing like Dean couldn’t take care of himself, refusing to go if Dean didn’t as well. 

Eventually, Dean had just told him to fuck off, seriously, because there was no way in hell he would be any kind of good company. 

Dean drank until his vision went sideways, his limbs heavy and relaxed as he fell against the couch.  Warmth seeped into his veins as he shut his eyes, riding out the sensation.  He felt his lips pull into a grin, head lolling from side to side as he listened to the television play reruns of old shows he’d seen a million times.  It was good, like this, burying himself in familiarity and things he could control, even if he couldn’t completely drown out memory of Cas’ breath against his skin.  The expanding, empty feeling in his chest.

He used to be able to just shake this stuff off.

Instead it stuck there, in the back of his mind, no matter how much he drank.  It made it easier, but it didn’t shut it down.  He resisted the urge to take more, knowing that he was close to that edge… the place where he couldn’t direct where his mind wandered.  It was a dangerous place to be. 

Dean fell asleep, feet propped up on the coffee table, chin dug into his chest, slouching so low on the couch he half hung off it.  It was the product of years of living on the road, sleeping sitting up in the passenger seat of the Impala, or tucked in the back with Sam’s elbow dug against his ribcage, drooling over his shoulder.  Dean could sleep anywhere.

It was easy, to slip into dreaming.  He welcomed it. 

 _Mom._ She smelled like flour, like autumn.  She smiled when he looked up at her, his hands small and clumsy and wiping at his shirt.  It fell across him, soft, loose.  Achingly familiar.

Sleep was the only thing that gave him peace, nightmares a rarity.  It was usually silence, dark, something safe to slip into when real life didn’t do the trick.  Sometimes it was more, sometimes it was sex or laughter, an uncomplicated, dulled down mirror of reality.  Other times, his favorite times, it was his mother.  It was only in dreams that Dean could really remember what it was like to see her smile, to have her arms around him. 

The tension leaked from his bones, and he let himself unfold into her.  Into warmth, into bright golden light. 

It ended too soon, too quickly.  Dean woke to the slam of the front door, his body going tense.  It was too early for Sam to be home, he thought, immediately doubting himself in his haze.  Dean reached for a something, a weapon, a kneejerk response.  His head spun when he pushed himself to his feet, unsteady.  Dean realized he was holding the remote for the television, shaking fingers wrapped around it, and he barely had time to consider whether or not it would actually be an asset in a fight or if he should just chuck it at a wall, maybe distract them so he could run them down. 

He wasn’t sure he could run.  Standing was already taking almost all of his concentration, but he had to try. 

When he attempted to raise his arm it became distinctly fucking clear just how drunk he was, almost toppling over from the movement.  “ _Dean_ ,” he heard a hard, familiar voice bite out, and his back straightened involuntarily, his feet positioning themselves shoulder-width apart.

His father looked the same as he remembered, layered jacket and worn, leather boots.  His eyes were dark and hard, a little sunken and tired, but clear.  His brow furrowed, the lines around his lips accentuated by the turned down edges, arms crossed in front of him.  Dean swallowed and forced himself to meet his eyes, trying to remain steady, upright.  The room spun around him.

 “Boy, are you _drunk_?” Dean wanted to shake his head no, but he just dropped his arms, the remote slipping through his fingers to make a small thud on the carpet.  Everything seemed to slow down, but he forced his chin up, nodding curtly.

“Yes sir,” he said, trying his damndest not to slur.  His father stared at him, his eyes cold, frown deepening in the center of his forehead.  Then he sighed, dejectedly, pinching the brow of his nose between two fingers.

“I’ve been calling your cell for hours. Where’s Sam?” he asked, looking around the room at what Dean knew was a pretty impressive collection of empty beer bottles. 

“He… He’s at a friend’s house.  For the holiday,” Dean said, trying to focus.  He wished he could force himself sober.

“A friend?” John asked, tentatively.  Dean exhaled slowly through his teeth, his hands in tight fists at his sides, swaying on the spot, just a little.  His father eyed the movement dangerously.

“Yeah, her name is Jess,” Dean said, slowly, carefully.  His father contemplated it, for a moment.  The silence was deafening.

“You let him out of your sight?” John finally asked, tone harder.  Dean sunk back, involuntarily, heart thudding.  He tried to shake his head but the movement made him feel sick, dizzy.  “Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” he bit, and Dean flinched.  He had to be fucking composed.  He raised his eyes back up to his father’s, vision blurred, head spinning.  “How the hell am I supposed to trust you when you can’t even keep tabs on your brother?  I gave you one job, Dean.” 

“I know, sir,” he responded, tone edging involuntarily toward frustration. 

He had to bite his tongue, the anger surging through him, alarmingly vivid in his torpor.  He wanted to throw it back in John’s face, tell him he didn’t have the fucking right because he was never here.  All the frustration over his abandonment coming to a head.  Why the hell couldn’t anyone just _stick around_?  John grabbed hold of his shoulder, grip tight and painful, and Dean winced. 

It was nothing, he’d had worse.

“Get yourself together, Dean.  Meet me it in the car, we’re going to get him.”  Dean nodded.

He took his time getting dressed, partly because his head was spinning beyond belief, and partly because he didn’t want to pull Sam away from what was possibly his first normal holiday… ever.  He tried to just shut down, but everything was piling up on his shoulders.  He felt heavy, and slow, tugging on his boots, his father already outside and waiting by the Impala.

He just moved, unthinking.  He was too tired to fight.

\--

Sam tried to enjoy himself, he really did.  Jess afforded him small touches, gestures of comfort when he felt his body tense.  His mind wandered to his brother, who he’d begrudgingly left at home.  He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t tried calling Cas that morning, multiple times, trying to bridge the gap.  Maybe figure out what the hell was going on. 

Maybe he really was just done with them.  Maybe it was his fault. 

He had moments of reprieve, though.  It was easy, here.  Uncomplicated.  While waiting for the turkey to come out of the oven, he, Jess and her mother had all sat in the living room, talking about everything from school and future plans to endearing stories of Jess as a child, rambunctious and curious.  She’d always loved learning, and music.  She’d apparently gone through multiple instruments by the time she had turned ten, the piano, the flute, the guitar.

“Jess you should play something,” her mother teased, having been pushing her all day to perform.  Jess rolled her eyes and blushed, eventually relenting.  While she collected her guitar, her mother leaned over and told him that she used to perform all the time.  That she’d always loved it, the way people lit up when she played. 

“Why doesn’t she do that anymore?” he asked.  Or did she?  Sam wasn’t sure, but the way her mother talked about it, it sounded like something of the past.

“It has a lot to do with her father’s passing, I think.  She just asked me if it was okay… that she stopped,” Ms. Moore replied, a little sadly as she relaxed against the soft cushions of the couch.  “I’m not going to push her to do something she doesn’t want.  I do miss it, though.  She’s one of those people… who just kind of belongs on stage.”  Her eyes were soft and watery, and Sam felt a small swell of affection for the woman.  “Maybe that’s just me being a mother, though.”

There was something ethereal about the way Jess looked when she began to play.  Her hair caught the light from the curtained windows, her eye makeup a little smeared, lips pink.  Her hands moved easily over the strings, and it made the breath go out of his lungs.  He wished he could capture the moment, keep it tucked away in his pocket.  She smiled easily when she began to sing.  Her voice was soft and sweet, a small flourish.  Wavering only slightly.

“ _Come on skinny love just last the year, Pour a little salt, we were never here…_ ”

Her mother had been right, she was made for this.  She was entrancing.  He hung off it, smiling, his gaze unflinching. 

When she was done, she looked up at him, her eyes clear, and he smiled at her.  Sam tried not to linger on the vague sheen of tears in her mother’s eyes. 

He’d never felt any particular connection to music beyond general enjoyment, but he felt it now.  Here, with her.  This meant something so much to Jess and her mother.  It meant a lot to him, too.

Not long after they made their way to the dinner table, Ms. Moore setting dishes of delicious looking food out in front of them.  Sam didn’t think he could ever thank her enough.  The weight of the night before hung off him in the quiet moments, though.  It was impossible to ignore completely. Jess touched his hand, and he twined his fingertips with hers, letting the contact ground him.  They were doing it more, since he’d opened up to her.  They were somewhere in between, not quite friends and not quite more than friends, and for now it actually felt okay.  There was something uncomplicated about just letting themselves be, naturally.  It felt unrushed, and solid, and in his life that was something he was hardly used to.

“Sam, would you like any leftovers?” Ms. Moore asked him, gently, having grown somewhat privy to his distraction throughout the day.  He smiled at her and shook his head, patting his stomach with his free hand.

“No thank you, I’ll burst if I eat any more!  It was delicious, though,” he replied, and Jess smiled at him.  “Thank you so much for having me.”

“Thank _you_ for coming!  It’s been so quiet around here recently.  You’re welcome anytime,” she smiled, pushing herself up from the table and grabbing a half emptied dish of stuffing and walking it to the kitchen.  Sam and Jess followed, helping her pick up the rest of the leftovers, covering them in plastic and stacking them up in their over-crowded fridge. 

Jess’ home was small, but pleasant. All the walls painted in warm hues, plant décor everywhere, quilts and throw pillows and tons of framed photos all over the walls.  In some of them it was just Jess and her mother, but in older photos there were sometimes three of them instead of two, a broad chested, soft-eyed man who looked at Jess and her mother like he was in awe of them.  It made Sam’s heart clench for reasons he couldn’t understand.  Or reasons he could, and didn’t want to. 

It made him hungry for a life he’d never had.

He caught Jess staring at them when she thought he wasn’t looking.  There was something sad and sweet in her expression, and he realized just how little he knew about her.  He wanted to know everything.

“Alright kids, I’ve been up since five this morning cooking, so I’m going to get a nap in.  If you keep the volume down, the living room is yours.” Sam smiled, nodding, Jess placing a hand on his shoulder for a moment in a familiar gesture.

“Thanks!  I’ll let you know if we need anything,” Jess said as Ms. Moore walked over and kissed the top of her hair.  Jess rolled her eyes, smiling affectionately.  “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, baby.”

Once Jess’ mother disappeared into her bedroom, Jess rounded on Sam, grabbing his wrist and tugging him into the living room where they curled up on opposite ends of the couch, their legs tangled up between them.  They watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on cable, or at least Jess did, commenting on the gigantic floats and the overblown musical numbers.  Sam just fell into a quiet stupor; his mind locked on last night, Dean clutching at his wrists, saying shit that scared the hell out of him.

Jess went quiet after a little while, Sam not realizing that she’d stopped watching the television and had started watching him.  He looked up at her, questioningly, and she smiled, nudging his leg with her foot. 

“What’s the matter?” Jess asked, and Sam tried to smile.  It must have looked sad, though because she frowned at him, scooting closer so she could cover his hand with her own.

“Dean came home drunk last night,” he said quietly, pressing his face into the palm of his free hand.  “He was really fucked up, Jess.  I haven’t seen him this low in ages, and he wasn’t exactly great after I came home from rehab.”

“Do you have any idea what happened?” she asked, running her thumb over his, soothingly.  He dropped his hand away from his face and looked at her, sighing.

“Cas broke up with him,” Sam said, and Jess’ eyes went wide.

“What?” she asked, openly startled.  ~~~~

“I don’t think Dean even knows why.  I tried calling Cas all morning, but he won’t pick up his phone,” Sam said, squeezing her hand.

“No, but that doesn’t make any sense.  Cas came to me the other night, and the way he talks about Dean,” she paused, running her fingers through her hair. ”Sam, there’s no way he would do this without a serious reason. You have to talk to him.”

“What do I do?  If he doesn’t want to talk to me, then he doesn’t want to talk to me.”  Sam took a deep breath. 

It wasn’t really his business; he’d never gone around and gotten involved in any of his brother’s relationships before.  Though, none of them had been like this.  He sighed and pushed it to the back of his mind, because that wasn’t the only thing bugging him.  It wasn’t the only thing bugging _Dean_.  It seemed to all just pile up on top of them, one after the other.  Things had been too easy, recently. 

“We got into it, about my addiction,” Sam said, feeling the acid sting of guilt and anger from the previous night rushing back to him.  “About what happened.  It figures he would finally talk to me about it after he’s drunk off his ass.  It sucks, being so worried and so angry at the same time.”

“That’s just being family, Sam,” Jess smiled, thin around the edges, “You don’t really play by the same rules, because at the end of the day you still love each other.  You know that’s not going anywhere, no matter what you do.  You’ve only been back a couple months, I think it’s about time you ‘got into it’” Sam laughed, genuinely, even as his eyes stung, and he pulled her into a hug.  Her hands touched his back gently and he sank into her, feeling her breath warm against his cheek.

Before he was ready to let her go, his pocket started buzzing, and he was hit with new a wave of anxiety.  He pulled back and reached for his cell, seeing Dean’s caller ID light up the welcome screen as it buzzed again in his palm.  Two new text messages.

_'dads homme'_

_'we re on ouyr waay'_

“Fuck,” he whispered, and Jess looked up at him, confused.  “Why the fuck, why _now_?”  Sam eyed the typos scathingly, bile rising in his throat as the reality of the situation ran him over.  Dean was drunk again, but instead of being angry like he wanted to be, he was scared.  Sam tried to push out the sick feeling that welled up in his gut, touching his hands together, and then the back of his neck, nervously, his brow pinched.

“Sam, what happened?”

“My Dad’s back in town,” he said simply.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for implied abuse, explicit sex, drinking as a coping mechanism, low self worth, abandonment issues, and general self destructive behavior

Jo watched Dean as he took a sip of lukewarm beer, mouth pressed against the lip of the bottle.  He sunk into the mattress, legs crossed, boots laid down at the foot of the bed.

“How long is he staying this time?” Jo asked, and he flinched at the sound.  Dean took a moment to glance at the bottle in his fist before he pulled himself away.  

“Hell if I know,” he bit out, voice gravelly as he continued to roll the bitter taste around on his tongue.  Jo stared at him expectantly, perched on the opposite end of the bed.  Dean found himself edging very slightly closer to her, very aware of empty air between himself and another body. He rolled his shoulders back and dipped his head to the side with a small pop.  

“He’s between jobs, so I’ve got no fuckin’ idea how long he plans on sticking around,” Dean continued.  "Shouldn't get my hopes up at this point. It's never more than a week or two unless something's up with Sam. This time won't be different."

The abandonment tasted like metal against his teeth, a hollow weight lodged in his throat.  He swallowed it.  

“Him and Sam are dancing around each other like hungry goddamn wolves, too.  I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

She nodded slowly, eyes narrowed as Dean pressed the bottle back up against his mouth and swallowed the rest of the beer in one go.  Realizing what the look meant, Dean exhaled loudly and averted his eyes, nails dragging down to peel at the damp paper label on the bottle between his palms.

“Did something happen?” she asked.   

"Course' not," Dean said, setting his jaw and glaring at her.

Jo didn't look like she believed him, narrowing her eyes and leaning forward. Her long blonde hair slipped in front of her shoulders, eyes raking what she could see of his body.  He wanted to recoil. It wasn't like what had happened the last time was a regular fucking occurrence. It wasn't like he hadn't deserved it.

He’d deserved worse.  The last thing he needed was pity, on top of everything else.

"You forget I was the one who cleaned you up last time 'nothing happened'," Jo said stiffly as she continued looking him over. Dean averted his eyes as her fingers wrapped around his wrists, shivering at the contact.  His skin burned with it.

For a moment he ignored the reason behind the touch and just let himself sink into it, the tips of her fingers ghosting along the tight muscle of his forearms.

Jo kneaded her fingers against his shoulders, slipping beneath the collar of his shirt. She was looking for an injury, a bruise or a cut, for Dean to catch his breath in pain.  But there was nothing there.  Dean smiled at her lazily, and she frowned back, hands moving behind his neck, brushing up against the scar between his shoulder blades.  The edges of Dean’s smile wavered, and he made to lift his hands and move her away, but instead his fingers found the nape of her neck, thumbs tracing her jawline.

Jo was so soft, so warm. This could be simple, he craved simple.

Jo leaned into the touch for half a moment, the ghost of a younger infatuation flit across her eyes.  It was obvious what this would be, and Jo knew it.  Jo knew him.  Before he could say anything, though, before he could think of anything even remotely appropriate, she nudged his hands away and rolled her eyes, leaning back as she balanced her weight on her palms.  Dean let out a small huff of a laugh.

“What the hell is going on with you?” she asked him softly.

“I just thought it would be fun to, ya know, relieve some tension,” he joked mildly, an easy grin splitting at his lips.

“Yeah. In your dreams, Winchester,” Jo smiled thinly, searching his features for some measure of truth.  Dean just grinned at her and shrugged, scooting back till he was pressed up against the headboard, carefully avoiding her eyes.  He felt her weight shift as he shut his own eyes, forcing himself to focus on small things, the brush of fabric against his bare forearms, the back of his neck against cold wood, the familiar dizziness that swam in his head as the booze made its way through his veins.  

“I hate him,” she said, quietly, with an intensity that was sobering.

“He did the best he could,” Dean responded gruffly. "He's never been able to protect anyone the way he wanted to. Despite all the shit between us, that's something I am intimately fucking familiar with." He’d never been able to protect Sam the way he was supposed to, either.

Dean heard her huff derisively, the mattress dipping to accommodate another shift in weight.

“Man, all I see is someone who’s only ever made selfish decisions when he’s always had other options,” she said, and Dean centered his weight opposite her as she moved to the space beside him.  There was a brush of slick cold against the back of his hand, and he shivered slightly before he finally opened his eyes.  Jo was pressing an opened beer bottle against his skin, an offering he gladly accepted.  She tipped a second beer back against her own lips.  

“Enabler,” he said softly, and she smirked around a soft gulp.  

“You want me to give a shit about him, but you and Sam are the ones I have to watch barely treading water. Meanwhile he’s still out there waging a ‘one man war’ against his own demons.”  She took another small sip, clinking the glass bottle against her teeth.  “Anyway, it’s more than that and you know it."

Dean felt himself sink back at the words, his heart suddenly too heavy in his chest.  

“Yeah, I know,” he said, his voice low.  “It wasn’t his fault.”  

Jo sighed and gripped the half empty beer bottle in her hands, and Dean moved to take another sip from his own.  Fuck, he was awful at this.

“Let me be angry,” Jo said finally, her shoulders slumping.  “Might be pointless, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to feel angry than to feel helpless.”  Dean watched as she pulled a small silver knife from her pocket, rolling it over in her palm, the pad of her thumb tracing its sharp edge.  A small bead of blood appeared stark against the seam between her skin and the metal, and she eyed it with muted interest.  “You’d think it’d get easier with time, but it doesn’t.  More time passes without thinking about him, but then I do and it’s like I’m thirteen all over again.”

Dean looked away from her.  Jo had been so angry when Ellen let slip the truth about her father’s death, and John’s involvement.  She hadn’t been able to look at Dean for days after she’d found out. He’d wanted to hold her then as he did now, but he wasn’t sure he should. He shifted slightly, gravitating toward her. Inches still between them.

“I know,” was all he could say.

“What’s going on?  Really?” she asked, nudging him gently with her elbow.  Dean sighed and slumped against the headboard, pulling his knees to his chest, half empty bottle of beer dangling from his left hand.

“I’m alone,” he answered, almost a whisper.

“You’re not.  You’ve got me, and you’ve got my mom and Bobby.  And you’ve always had Sam,” she said dipping her head slightly to the side.  “And you’ve got Cas, right?”  Dean was ashamed at how quickly his eyes started to burn. He tried to blink it away.

Jo caught his expression and her eyes went soft, the small knife and her own drink discarded to the bedside table before she leaned into him, their shoulders pressed together.  It wasn’t everything he needed, or wanted, or craved.  But she was there, for a moment, and Dean closed his eyes, let his weight rest against her, pushing everything else away.  He wanted it to be enough.

\--

Sam paced quietly across his bedroom, stopping in front of his bookshelf to thumb at his small collection.

It had been a long time since he'd read for pleasure, but now he was considering it, trying to distract himself from the struggle of dealing with his father over the past few days. His lingering frustration. He moved to pick an old, worn book of Greek plays, but then he heard footsteps crossing the path across his doorway. Another sound, then, the click of a latch.  

Dean had finally come home.  

There were the hushed sounds of voices; Dean’s low and muted, submissive, while his father’s voice grew steadily louder.

“Just get to bed, Dean,” Sam heard John say as Dean’s heavy footsteps thudded across the carpeted hallway toward his bedroom.  Sam walked toward his own door and waited, listening.  After a few long minutes the light that crept up through the cracks in his door fell away, and he couldn't hear his father shuffling around outside anymore.  Sighing, he touched his forehead to the wood and, slowly, turned the latch.

Sam ignored the dim light from the television in the living room, turning in the opposite direction toward Dean’s room.  He paused for a moment at the door, tapping his knuckle against the molding.

“Dean, I’m coming in,” he said, just loud enough that his brother would be able to hear him.  When there was no response he pushed his way through, the room dark, his brother’s form a shadow against the sheets.  Sam closed the door behind him with a small click and moved forward until his knees were pressed up against the edge of the bed.  Dean smelled like gasoline and beer.  

“Dean?” he asked, turning to sit on the mattress, his brother curled up and facing away from him.  The slow rise and fall of Dean’s shoulders was the only thing that kept Sam from letting his fear get the better of him.

“You know when we were kids, Sammy?”  Dean asked suddenly.  His voice was steady but low, and Sam knew he wasn’t drunk, though he had probably made an impressive effort to the contrary.  “You used to come crawl into bed with me sometimes when you’d have nightmares.  You kicked in your sleep, and I fuckin’ hated it.” Dean laughed quietly, shoulders shaking.  Sam tried to mirror the laugh.  

“Move over,” Sam said, grinning and rolling his eyes, and Dean obeyed immediately, leaving a wide space for Sam to crawl into.  He tucked himself in under the sheets, back to his brother, knees curled up against his waist.  After a few minutes of silence Dean moved back until their shoulders touched, and Sam understood.  Dean couldn’t ask for it, but even as kids he would crave that physical proximity, curling in close to Sam those same nights Sam had sought refuge in his bed.  Dean had probably satiated his need for contact later with other people, something less familial, but at its core it was just about affection, about safety.  

“You smell like ass, dude,” Sam joked, and Dean huffed at him, his shoulders rattling a bit.

“Shut up,” Dean replied, taking a deep breath and pulling the covers tight around him.  “Also… thanks,” he said, so quietly Sam almost missed it.  

“Yeah,” Sam replied back simply. "No problem. Your bed's more comfortable anyway." 

"They're the same mattress, dude. You think we had extra money to blow? Not that I'd mind. Always wanted memory foam. Like sleeping on a friendly cloud," Dean said, his voice tired but laced with amusement. Sam laughed. "Maybe one day." 

"Whatever you say, man."

Sam closed his eyes, smiling to himself as he pressed his back flush with Dean’s. He listened to his brother's steady breathing as he curled his arm up under the pillow, falling slowly into quiet sleep.

The next few days were a little easier than the previous ones.  Sam and Dean were back at school, and John was busy doing research for his next job.  Sam would come home and find John hunched over a laptop, Dean shutting himself in his room or heading to Bobby's to work until dark. 

His dad was...frustrating. And controlling. He'd ruined his Thanksgiving and tried to insist on driving them both to school, which luckily he'd changed his mind about. The guy was never around but as soon as he came back it was like he expected shit to be the way he wanted. Expected to be involved. Sam tried to keep everything civil between himself and his father, if only for Dean’s sake.  Dean liked to place himself between the two of them, and after the shit that had gone down with Cas not even a week earlier, Sam thought that now was probably the best time to try and step up.  Try to look out for Dean the way he’d always done for him.

Dean wasn’t unstable, but he wasn’t talking about it.  He was laughing, joking, and acting so normal it was worrying, a harsh contrast to the way he’d knock back beers or whiskey before bed whenever he could get away with it. He wasn’t ever completely drunk, just nursing the itch, dulling the pain.  Sam hated it, but he couldn’t fix it.  Trying to watch out for him was all he could manage.

He tried, but Sam could only stand it for so long, so much shit going unsaid between himself and his father. Inevitably, the wall broke down.

\--

Dean dropped the empty beer bottle into the recycling bin out back behind his house.  The yard was small, the grass dead.  There was one small crooked tree at the edge of it, arms breaking through the old fence. 

He should fix that. 

Dean breathed out and shook his limbs, feeling satiated, feeling warm.  He watched his breath cloud against the pale sky, let the winter bite at his fingers.  He felt calm, finding a quiet moment away from his father's hardly concealed frustration, from Sammy’s worried little glances. 

He was fine, he was always fine. 

The silence was breached when he heard his father’s truck pull into the driveway, doors slamming.  Dean shuddered at the sound, raking his hand through his hair before he walked back into the house. 

Sam stood face to face with his father in their small living room, his school bag thrown to the side, contents scattered across the carpet.  Dean watched them bearing down on one another, already screaming, and his heart sank.  He should have expected as much. 

"The hell is your problem?" Sam snarled, fists clenched and jaw twitching.

"Don't you speak to me like that, boy," John warned back.  "You know damn well what my problem is."

"What?  I stay after class for a study session and you call the damn school on me?" Sam spat, his face red.  "I told Dean where I was."

"Yeah, he told me," John said, frustrated.

Dean clenched his jaw.

"Then why?  What the hell is the point?  I'm getting ready for a history final that's worth thirty percent of my grade and you march in there like I'm about to shoot up right there in the fucking _school library_ ," Sam said, fighting to keep himself steady.

“Sam, listen to me goddamn it,” John said through clenched teeth, his entire body tensed, that old soldier’s stance.  

“Why?  You don’t fucking listen to me!” Sam shot back at him.  He clenched his fists and kicked one of his books with the side of his foot.  There was a soft thump, a flutter of pages as it fell open.  It seemed anti-climactic, somehow. 

His father laughed helplessly, scrubbing his hand across his face.

“You know you’re acting pretty high and mighty for a kid who just got outta rehab,” he said as he pulled his hand away again, his features set.  “I have a goddamn right to be concerned.”

“You’re actin’ pretty ‘high and mighty’ for a guy who hasn’t seen his kids in _months_ ,” Sam rebutted, visibly trying to keep himself from outright screaming.  Dean moved to his brother, hand gripping Sam’s shoulder, trying to steady him.   Dean situated his body halfway between Sam and John. 

“Sammy, calm down,” Dean said, agitated but pleading.  “Both of you calm the hell down,” he continued, louder, turning to look at his father. 

John watched him dangerously before turning. He leaned over the coffee table, his hand wrapping loosely around the neck of a bottle.  The liquid inside sloshed noisily.

“Maybe you both should just come with me, leaving you here was a mistake,” John finally said, righting himself and staring down at the bottle in his hand.  He sounded weary.

“What?” Sam breathed, his voice seeming to catch in his throat. Dean’s heart plummeted to his gut. Sam pushed past Dean as he and his father stared each other down, fingers twitching nervously as Sam rounded on him.

“I’m just tryin’ to keep you boys safe, _Christ_ , Sam.”  

"Then be _here_. Keep us safe _here_. You think it's doing us any fucking favors to drag us around the country while you chase down criminals? I never had friends until I came here. My whole life, alone." _Alone._ That word hit Dean right in the chest.

"I'm not going back to that."

"So this place has been good for you? Is that what you're telling me, Sam?"

“You know… I get that you don’t trust me.  And you know what?  I don’t care,” Sam walked forward, Dean still finding it a little disconcerting that his baby brother could look his father in the eyes without straining his neck.  “I might have fucked up but I’m working _so hard_ at getting better and you haven’t been around for any of it," Sam said, leaning forward.  "You’re never here, you don’t get a say anymore.” Sam had his fingernails dug into the inside of his elbow, knuckles braced.

John stared at Sam, his eyes hard, lips pinched.  Sam didn’t even give him time to respond, turning on his heel and stomping toward his bedroom.  

“Sam.  Sam get back here!” his father yelled after him.

“No,” he bit, rounding the corner, Dean’s gaze trailing after him. 

 _Shit._  

Dean slowly turned to stare at his father, who was taking a long sip from the bottle in his hand.  John ignored him for a moment, staring around the room.  Dean wanted to say something, or go after Sam, but instead he just stood there, frozen. 

“Goddamn it,” John said, mostly to himself, reaching up to rub at his shoulder.  He looked at Dean after a long pause, meeting his eyes for a split second before he glanced toward the open window, the Impala sitting in the driveway. His expression hardened.  “Dean.  Why don’t you touch up your car, before you get rust," he said, turning away from the window but still eyeing Dean over his shoulder.  "I wouldn’t have given it to you if I’d thought you’d mess the damn thing up.”

Dean just nodded, straightening his back, frowning as his father turned away and made his way into the kitchen.  He could hear the cap from another bottle of beer being dislodged, clinking as it hit the counter.

Dean was fine, he was always fine.

\--

More than anything, it was the sameness of his family's attitude that was unsettling. They didn't acknowledge what had happened, even if every exchange was colder, more terse. It had always been that way, they'd always had relatively few words for one another, kept a distance, it was just somehow... more pointed. Maybe Castiel had just gotten used to warmth.

Castiel sat between Uriel and the car door, his shoulders tight, forehead pressed against the chill glass.

He looked up after a while, over at Uriel who was staring forward, big meaty hands wrapped around a textbook. He kept himself as far apart from Uriel as he could in the space, feeling the leather stick against his lower back, his hands laced together on his lap. He shifted uncomfortably.

Coming to a stop in the driveway, Castiel extricated himself from the back seat of the car as quickly as he could manage. The cold ground crunched under Castiel’s worn leather shoes, his brothers following behind him silently.  Their eyes burned holes in the back of his head.

Once they were inside they went their separate ways, Castiel finding his way into his bedroom and shutting himself inside.   Castiel's eyes roved his collection of worn religious texts, a neat pile between his bed and desk.  He walked toward it and flicked on the old lamp that sat above it, its base decorated with crude, angular depictions of elephants.  All around it was a collection of Shabbat candles, half of them burned down, a few still untouched.  It was odd, he realized, this mishmash of cultures, but it warmed him. 

It was just about the only thing he had left that belonged only to himself. 

Castiel reached out to touch his collection of books, his fingers tracing the binding of an old, worn copy of the Quran, and he considering burying himself in it.  Or in the proverbs of the Bible, an older King James copy he’d read and marked up with red pen, notes in the margins.  He didn’t really care which, he just needed something more than himself to keep his mind steady.  To distract from everything.

He sat on the edge of his bed, flipped through the thin pages of his favorite Bible, eyes scanning the red letters that marked Jesus' words in the New Testament. He lost himself in it, in familiar stories. The walls still pressed in on him, and he pulled his limbs closer to himself in response. He swallowed the stone in his throat.

Later that night, book tossed aside on his comforter, feeling near suffocation within the constricting walls of his house and the dull anxious itch at the back of his head, he headed back downstairs, staring at the front door in quiet contemplation.  He had been allowed this before.  He would only be gone for a short time.  His brother had eyes on the Winchester’s house, or at least he would if he knew Castiel was leaving, but he couldn’t see everything.  Castiel just needed air, needed a walk.  Needed to try and exhaust himself.

Before he could move, though, he heard footsteps behind him.  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, his muscles tensing.  He turned to see Zachariah, a thoroughly unpleased look on his round, bird-like features.  

“Where do you think you’re going?” his brother asked, anger flashing in his eyes, features lit only by the soft moonlight that leaked through the window in the door.

“I need a walk, I won’t be out long,” Castiel told him, trying to keep him calm.  He didn’t want Raphael to get involved.

“You expect me to believe that, after what you did?” Zachariah said bitterly, Castiel sighing and averting his eyes.  He turned back toward the front door, placing his hand on the cold metal knob.  Zachariah practically hissed.

“I’m not careless.  I won’t go back to them.  Let me have this at least,” Castiel answered quietly, slightly pleading.  

Zachariah wasn’t the type to be sympathetic, Castiel wasn’t sure he had it in him.  He was too self-involved, too removed from anything that didn’t have to do with his own success.

“Do you have any idea what your little tryst with the Winchesters cost me?  How bad you made me look?”  Castiel felt a hand on his shoulder, wrenching him around so his brother could look him in the eyes.  “You _acted_ like you were so upset over losing Anna, and then you went and make friends with that Sam Winchester.  You crawl into bed with his brother.” Zachariah’s mouth turned up into a cruel looking grin, laughing without amusement.  His fingers dug into Castiel’s shoulder.  “It's actually impressive. You really outdid yourself this time.”

“Don’t touch me,” Castiel growled through his teeth.  Zachariah huffed impatiently, removing the hand from Castiel’s shoulder.  “I’m leaving.  I’ve cut off contact with the Winchesters. Raphael has what he wants.”  Castiel moved forward, into his brother’s space, staring down at him with as much intensity as he could muster.  “Back.  Off.”  

Zachariah was silent as Castiel pushed his way through the front door, the hinges squeaking in his rush.  

Once he was outside he pulled his jacket tight around him and walked, one shaking hand up to tug at the hair behind his ear.

\--

“You’re leaving already?” Dean’s voice was shaking as he watched his father slowly repacking his small duffel of belongings.  Dean stood at the entrance to his bedroom, too wary to actually walk in.  This was his father’s space, it didn’t feel right to intrude.  Even if it sat empty most of the time.

John just sighed, and Dean balled his hands into fists, still standing at attention even though he knew it wasn’t necessary.  Dean would take the fighting any day over this.  Over having to watch him run out over and over again.  Feeling like he would never be enough to make him stay.  They could work it out if he stayed.  With his dad around, Dean didn’t have to be in charge, he could ask for direction, he could depend on someone.  

“I recently tracked a dangerous fugitive to Wichita, I need to get moving before he does,” John said simply, sighing as he packed a shotgun in on top of plaid button ups and worn jeans, a small, rattling box of bullets alongside it.  Dean frowned and his father looked up at him, half frustrated, and half tired.

“Screw him,” Dean said, almost a whisper.  John zipped up the duffel, his calloused hands lingering on the mesh exterior.  He sighed again, his brow creased.  “This is your home, too.  Sam and me, we need you.”

“I need to do this, Dean,” he said, slightly exasperated.  He threw the duffel over his shoulder, the contents shifting with a muffled clatter.  John’s shoulder sloped slightly at the change in weight, but he balanced it out, heading toward the door.  

Dean stood his ground, unmoving beneath the arch, shoulder brushing the molding.  He was nearly as tall as John, well-muscled from working long hours at the garage with Bobby, and he should be able to strike an intimidating figure.  He didn’t feel that way, though.  He felt like a little kid throwing a tantrum.  There was nothing self-assured about his stance, only desperation, but he still tried.  

“Dean, move.”

“Why?” Dean asked, and his father frowned, tightening his grip on the strap.  

“You know why,” he answered, trying to take another step forward.  

Dean remained in his path, even with his father staring down at him.  His heart thudded in his chest when he smelled the heady aroma of whiskey on John’s breath.  The warning bells were there, but John wasn’t outwardly drunk.  Dean tried not to let himself flinch away.  He hated how he could see himself in that, though, how he could still hear Sammy yelling at him, trying to get him to understand that it wasn’t fucking healthy. 

It was just the only thing that made it easier.  He didn’t know how else to cope.

“No, I really don’t.”

For a moment Dean thought he’d fucked up, but his father just buried his face in his hand, a frustrated grimace pulling at his lips.  

“I’m doing this for you, for Sam.  I’m doing this to keep people safe.”  

 _No_ , Dean thought, _you’re doing this because you can’t forgive yourself for not protecting mom._

“It’s the only thing I can do.”

“We’re your family,” Dean pleaded softly, and John met his eyes, indulgent at first before they clouded over with something else; regret, anger.  Disappointment.  

Dean hated this.  Yeah, things were fucked up between them, between him and Sam and John, but Dean could remember better times.  Remember when they used to feel like a family.  He just wanted it back.  They could have it back if they just _tried_.

“Take care of Sam.  I’m counting on you.”  His voice was clipped, impersonal.  

Dean straightened his back and nodded stiffly, even as his heart dropped, trying not to let himself fall alongside it.  He moved back and watched as his father brushed past him, heading down the hall toward the front door.  His hand lingered too long against the handle.  Sam walked out of his room, then, watching Dean instead of their father, concerned.  John didn’t look back, walking through the doorway, his shoulders stiff until he shut it behind him.  

“Did you know he was leaving?” Dean asked, and Sam nodded slowly, his hands fidgeting.

“He told me earlier today, came in to say goodbye,” Sam explained.

Dean nodded at his brother, pushing his hands into his pockets and finding the key to the Impala.  

“Dean, are you okay?”

Dean froze for a moment, the sound of his dad’s car backing out of the driveway, a soft sputter from the exhaust pipe.  He listened until he couldn’t hear it anymore, and Sam repeated the question.  

“Dean?”

“I’m going out, there’s cash on the counter for takeout.  Get whatever you want,” Dean answered, watching Sam’s mouth turn to a deep frown.  “I just need some time.”

“Yeah alright,” Sam said as he approached him, a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of support.  Dean nodded and brushed past him, heading for the door.  

\--

Dean made it to the driver’s seat of the Impala before he let himself feel it.  The frustration writhing under his skin, breathing it out through parted lips, his hands gripping tight at the leather wheel before pulling his fist back, fingers carding through his hair.  He pulled at it until it hurt. 

"Fuck," Dean breathed. He inhaled slowly, carefully.

Letting go, he threw a fist out against the dashboard, the cold slap of skin against plastic.  He swung again, and again, and again until his muscles ached, till small beads of sweat formed against his temple, chilled as soon as they hit open air.  

Fuck this. Fuck not having control.  Fuck being stuck here in this shitty awful horrible situation.  Fuck never being good enough.

Dean had whiskey stashed in the glove compartment, nestled in next to his father’s pistol, a sometimes precaution.  There wasn’t enough booze left in the bottle, not even fuckin’ close, but he grabbed for it, trying to keep himself together.  If he thought he’d been touch-hungry before it was nothing compared to how he felt now.  He needed someone… needed to make a connection.  Something physical he could grab onto, sink his teeth into.  

Something he could feel for days.

He choked down the drink, scorching his throat, the heat rising in his cheeks.  Dean shook it out, from his shoulders to his feet and back up to the tips of his fingers, his entire body relaxing and transitioning into the sensation.    

After a few moments, Dean twisted the key in the ignition and headed out of his driveway, blinking back the burn in his eyes.  He was heading toward town, maybe.  He didn’t think about it, just taking familiar streets, led by battered signs and flickering street lamps.  

The whiskey haze crept up on him slow at first, and then all at once, his hands gripping the wheel tighter still, sat forward so he could focus on the painted yellow lines on the street.  

He passed by a few familiar clubs, the sidewalk littered with women in short dresses, men in groups of three and four, tables full of hipsters with their clove cigarettes, and their knit hats, and their knee high black boots over brightly colored stockings.

Then he saw him.

His hands were shoved in the pockets of his tan coat, eyes downcast and tired and so fucking vivid that it made Dean feel lightheaded.  Dean rounded the next corner he came across, pulled into a nearly empty lot behind a bar, and climbed out.  Then, he sprinted.  He made his way back around in the direction he’d seen Cas, terrified he’d lost him, not even knowing what he would do if he found him.  

He was just dizzy, and upset, and he felt insane, he felt like he was losing his goddamn mind.

Dean was about to give up before he saw a mess of dark hair poking up from behind a small crowd of people, turning onto a smaller street.  Dean followed him, finding the street empty but for Cas, his pace steady, less offbeat than his own.  Dean felt he might be sick, the whiskey in his veins the only thing that gave him courage.

“Cas!” he called out, his voice breaking just slightly, enough to make him miss a step.  When Cas turned, looked back at him with wide eyes, he thought he might turn and run because what the fuck was he doing?  Dean barreled forward, instead, his boots thudding loud against the pavement.  He had no idea what he felt, if it were more anger or _need_ , but he found himself grabbing at the collar of Cas’ jacket, shoving him up against the side of the building.

“You can’t be here,” Cas said, his voice low, breathing hard and ragged, more undone than he should be.  He wasn’t supposed to care.  He was supposed to be the calm one, put together.  He chose this, after all.  Dean hadn’t ever had the option.  

There was still the pale seam of a cut across Cas’ lip from before, and it made Dean’s blood boil.  

How could he still be protective, after everything?  

Dean’s skin burned where his knuckles pressed up against Cas’ neck, and he realized how confused he was.  Halfway between an attack and kissing the breath from his lungs. He just pressed his forehead into Cas’ heaving chest, felt his heartbeat up against his cheek, and he knew what he wanted.  What he needed.

Dean just wanted to be touched.  To kid himself for a while that someone wanted to touch _him_.

 “I need,” Dean started, his voice already shaking, resisting the urge to drag his thumbs across Cas’ jawline, to let himself get wrapped up in the noise of his heartbeat.  He wouldn’t get taken in.  He could rid himself of it all, he just needed one fucking night.  

“Please, I don’t want to talk, I just need you.  Please.” He chanced a glance up at Cas, who was staring at him with wide, watery eyes, and Dean wanted to punch him for acting like he gave a shit.  Like he was worried.  “I’ll make it good for you.”

“Dean, what happened?” Cas asked, his head turning from side to side like he was waiting to be descended upon, like he was afraid.  Dean flinched.

“Yes, or no,” Dean said simply, forcing himself to meet those wild eyes, the alcohol making him dizzy, his knees shaking.  It took every ounce of control Dean had left in him not to collapse into Castiel’s body, not to bury his face in his neck, taste his skin, make him writhe the way he knew he could.   

It turned out he didn’t need to hold himself back, because then Cas was kissing him.  It was open mouthed with a desperation that surprised Dean.  Cas’ hands, that had moments before been resting at his sides, carded through his hair, pulling him closer.  They twined together around the back of his neck, thumbs tracing his skin up and down in a soothing motion as he tried to soften the kiss.  

Dean wished he had the courage to ask Cas what he needed to know instead of just grasping for skin, for friction.

He couldn’t take Cas kissing him like that, though.  Even as his own tongue darted out to meet his soft lips, teeth knocking against teeth in their eagerness.  Dean eventually found the strength to wrench himself back from it, his nose coming to rest against Cas’ warm cheek.  It killed Dean that he could feel that breath against his skin.  

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” Cas breathed, turning his head to try and catch Dean’s mouth again, but Dean turned away, pressing their bodies flush against one another.  He settled his hands at the base of Cas’ spine, the blood already rushing south.  His head spun with the scent of Cas, the feel of him.  “Not here. Dean, we can’t do this here.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathed, dipping his fingers below Cas’ belt, teasing the cleft of his ass as Cas rut up against his leg.  “Follow me.”

\--

Castiel let Dean wrap his hand around his wrist, pull him down the sidewalk toward an empty parking lot.  He let him press him up against the side door of the Impala, hands up under his shirt, nails dragging against his oversensitive skin.  Castiel didn’t know what to do.  Dean had never looked so ripped open, so desperate.  Castiel wanted to wrap him up and put him back together, even when he knew he was putting him at risk.  

No.  He wasn’t just putting him at risk.  He was undoing everything he had done to protect him, to keep him away.  Castiel couldn’t say no, though, he craved the touch as much as Dean did.  He wanted to forget about everything that had happened, wanted to take it all back.  But he couldn’t.  

This could only ever end with both of them worse off than before, but if this was Dean’s way of purging himself of Castiel, then Castiel would let him, and he would take whatever Dean offered up in return.  

Dean opened the car door and Castiel backed up into the wide space of the Impala’s back seat, Dean crawling in between his legs.  

Castiel shrugged off his jacket as Dean leaned into the front seat to stick the key in the ignition, turning the heat, and the radio. Then he grabbed a small tube of clear gel from the glove compartment, dropping it between them before falling forward, pressing their chests together, teeth grazing the hollow of Castiel’s throat. Dean’s limbs were shaking slightly, small groans pulled up from this chest as he slotted their bodies together,

Dean pushed his calloused hands up under Castiel's shirt, pushed it over his head.  He gasped when Dean pressed an open mouth kiss to the center of his chest, tongue darting out and leaving a wet trail down the center of his stomach.  Castiel had no choice but to let Dean lead, to let him roll his hips against his own, their cocks rubbing together through layers of clothing.  

“Dean,” Castiel pleaded softly, wanting to know what was going on.  Hoping to God this wasn’t his doing, that he hadn’t had the power to break Dean down like this.  To nerves and need and _pain_.  

Familiar songs rose up from speakers, ones he’d heard Dean play before.  Songs that sounded like him.

“ _I know, I never leave you, baby._ _But I got to go away from this place, I’ve got to quit you..._ ”

Dean wouldn’t let Castiel kiss him again.  Wouldn’t let him run his fingers through his hair, let him be gentle.  He just pushed back, teeth latched around Castiel’s neck, tongue wetting the skin.  Castiel writhed, it felt so incredibly good but he’d also never felt so hopelessly separated from someone.  It was maddening, the way he wanted to reach out to give him what he thought Dean was really asking for, affection, caring. 

Instead he chose to be visceral, to make this hurt as much as possible.   

“Want me, I need you to want me,” Dean mumbled against his skin, and Castiel ached to tell him just how much he did.  He tried to touch Dean’s face, to give him some small measure of comfort, but Dean jerked away from it.  Instead he opted for touches in other places.  

“Oh, fuck,” Castiel breathed, Dean hands breaching the line of his boxers, one hand cupped against his cock.  

Dean worked quickly, undoing his belt, the button, the zipper, and then tugged, Castiel trying to maneuver himself so that Dean could pull off his pants.  Castiel reached out to touch the hem of Dean’s shirt once his trousers were pooled on the floorboard, to pull it off, but Dean shook his head.  Dean didn’t want Castiel to see him anymore, he realized.  

Somehow, in the midst of everything, that hit him the hardest.  

Dean didn’t give him time to dwell on it, though, soon tugging down Castiel’s boxers as well, his cock half hard even as Dean wrapped his fist around him, giving it a small jerk.  Castiel gasped at the sensation, eyes fixed on Dean’s beautiful face, drinking him in even as the feeling barreled him over.  

Dean looked determined, but pained, and Castiel didn’t know how to deal with it all at once.  He just wanted to give Dean what he needed.  

“ _Hear what I say, every_ _day._ _Baby, it’s really growin’, you made me happy every single day.  But now I’ve got to go away…_ ”

“Dean,” Castiel tried again, biting back a small whine as the blood rushed from his head, pooling at the base of his stomach.  He felt every move, every twitch of Deans fingers, like every nerve ending in his body was centered on the spot where their skin met.  He thrust his hips up into Dean’s hand, thumb tracing the head of his cock and slicking him up with precum, tongue darting out to wet his lips.  Then, before he realized what was happening, Dean’s hand was gone.  

Castiel watched as Dean undressed himself in the cramped space, his cock hanging wet and heavy between his trembling thighs as he pushed off his own briefs.  He had pale freckles on the inside of his legs, on his knees, on the tops of his feet.  Castiel wanted to press his mouth over each of them in turn, give Dean the adoration he deserved instead of this mockery of a thing,

Castiel was too overwhelmed, too confused, carrying too much of the weight of all the issues between them.  The stuff that wasn’t actually gone just shoved haphazardly to the side.  They just filled the space in with touch and unspoken things.

Dean picked up the small bottle from before, and for a moment he made to hand it to Castiel.  Suddenly he was all too aware that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.  He barely even watched porn, only once or twice out of curiosity.  He’d always figured that when they did this there would be more communication, maybe he would go first, Dean opening him up and filling him and taking care of him the way he’d always tried to, even if he couldn’t do it with words.  

Dean must have seen the hesitation in his expression because then he was pouring the lube onto his own fingers, spreading his legs and leaning back.  Castiel couldn’t breathe.

\--

Dean could feel himself shaking as he pressed the first of his fingers in, up to the knuckle.  

He couldn’t help but clench around the intrusion, the sensation not completely foreign, but he was so wrecked he wasn’t sure he was thinking straight.  He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.  Cas didn’t know what the hell he was doing, and Dean couldn’t bring himself to walk him through it.  He was usually so careful with shit like this, but he didn’t think he could handle it.  It was too intimate.  More intimate than sex, even.  

Dean hissed as he pushed a second finger in, not nearly ready enough but needing to feel the burn.  

He crooked his fingers, trying to find a sweet spot, to feel pleasure alongside it.  He wanted more already, he didn’t care if it ripped him in half at this point.  He just wished it were Cas’ fingers in him, opening him up, rubbing him raw.  

Dean looked up, his eyes clouded as he fucked down on his hand, gaining speed, his cock throbbing between his legs.  Cas, true to form, just stared at him, unblinking, with that goddamn look in his eyes like he was trying to pick him apart, trying to understand.  Dean scissored his fingers one more time before he pulled out of himself, leaning forward onto his knees, tongue darting out to swipe over the head of Cas’ cock.  

He needed to make him enjoy this, needed to make him feel good almost as much as Dean needed Cas inside him.

“Oh my god,” Cas breathed as Dean sucked him down.  

He felt Cas’ fingers thread into his hair as he opened his throat, taking him as far as he could.  Cas was shaking under him.  He reacted like he couldn’t handle the sensation, like it was too fucking much.  Dean worked him as long as he could, Cas snapping his hips up to meet him, hands gentle in a way that was nothing like the frantic thrust against the back of his throat.  

Too fucking gentle.  

As quickly as he’d started, Dean pulled away, watching Cas’ face as he leaned back and spread his legs.

“Come on,” Dean said, his voice completely torn, legs shaking.  He couldn’t take it anymore, he needed Cas to do this now.  He didn’t want to _think_ anymore.  “Please.”  

Cas didn’t say a word, just leaned forward and pressed their chests together.  Dean wrapped his hand around Cas’ cock one more time, spreading the remaining lube on it as best as he could manage and helping Cas line up.  

“It’ll be too dry,” Cas said, his voice high and breathy.  He was shuddering with the effort of not pushing into Dean.  

“I don’t fucking care,” Dean bit back, digging his nails into Cas’ skin, holding him so close he could feel their hearts pounding in tandem.

“I’ll hurt you,” Cas continued, frustrated.

“I need it to hurt,” Dean growled, lifting his hips as much as he could, trying to get Cas to breach the fucking barrier, to shove into him.  To take away all of this emptiness, all of this heartache. “Just fuck me.”  Cas buried his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, laying soft unwanted kisses against his skin, and then, very slowly, he pushed in.  

Dean’s body was on fire.

\--

Castiel had never heard Dean make a noise like that, halfway between a moan and a sob, his chest heaving at the intrusion.  He wrapped his arms tight around him, every inch of them connected, wishing he could kiss him, tell him how much he loved him, how good he felt, how they could stop if it hurt because Castiel didn’t want to hurt him anymore.  He felt so good, though, warm, and tight, and perfect.  

Castiel would have given anything for these circumstances to be different, but right then he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

God, he just wished Dean would stop shaking.  He laid kisses across his jaw, his cheek, the corners of his eyes, and Dean was too focused on relaxing to keep him from this, from trying to comfort him.  

“Move, damn it,” Dean said, his voice too weak to be convincing.  Castiel tried, though, pulling out and pushing back in with a shallow thrust, Dean groaning and shaking in his arms.  Castiel placed another kiss against his collarbone, as gently as he could manage, his fingers gripping at his back.  

“Fuck, please, more,” Dean pleaded, and Castiel moved again, faster this time, his own pleasure turning him raw, making him needy.  

He wanted more, but he was terrified.  He moved in small, uneven thrusts, trying to find a rhythm that didn’t make Dean hitch his breath in pain.  He tried until Dean started to move under him, meeting him, pushing back against him with force.  

“Cas,” he bit out, his voice angry.  “Fuck me now.”

Castiel couldn’t ignore it anymore.  He drove forward, pounding into Dean as his own shoulders shook, breathing against Dean’s skin.  It was slick with sweat.  Dean smelled like salt and motor oil and whiskey and he tasted like heaven, Castiel unable to get enough, to sink deep enough.  He was blinded by the sensation, suddenly instinctive, chasing his pleasure, praying that this was what Dean wanted, what he needed.  

“Fuck,” Castiel said, his voice breaking.  “Dean.”

He was close, already so close.  

Castiel tried to pull away so he could touch Dean, bring him to the edge along with him, but Dean was holding onto him like a lifeline.  Like he was the last real thing in the world.  His teeth buried in his shoulder, hands bunched up in the cloth of his shirt.  

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dean said, clenching around him purposefully, and Castiel was so close he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but obey.  

Dean whined and thrust his hips up as Castiel pushed into him, and then he was shaking, his movements erratic, dick pulsing between them.  Dean was coming undone just from the friction between their shaking bodies.  Castiel pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes screwed shut, soft, pink mouth hanging open.  

He stole a kiss, then, just one, soft against his puckered lower lip.  

That was all Castiel needed, his voice breaking in a stuttered sob.  He was so starved for that contact, something genuine in the midst of all this, chasing sensation.

Castiel’s orgasm hit him like a freight train, and he tried to pull out but Dean just wrapped his legs around him, holding him there.  His hips canted up to wring that last of it from him, whole body shaking, aching, both of them spent.  Both of them falling to pieces.  

God it was nothing like he’d ever felt before, almost painful in its intensity.  

He fell, then, unable to keep himself propped up, his face buried against Dean’s chest, Dean still clinging to him, trembling.  His mouth was pressed into Castiel's hair, breathing warm, long, ragged breaths.  They lay there silent for a while, Castiel only having the energy to pull out of him once their breathing evened.  Then Dean was pushing him away.

Reality hit him, like a lead weight against his chest.

“Get out.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for addiction, and non-consensual drug usage

Castiel was seven years old, and he cried easily.   

It was early October, colored leaves littered the ground around him.  They had gone to a small park, an expanse of even grass cut through by a sidewalk, a sandpit, with benches and tables scattered throughout.  Castiel walked alone toward one worn, wooden bench.  A woman sat there.  She had dark skin, a crooked spine, a cane across her lap, her fingers kneading at a knot in her knee.  He watched her mouth turn down in a grimace as lines pressed into her sagging skin, and he knew that look meant pain.  Placing a small, assured hand against the woman’s knee, Castiel felt the tears pricking behind his eyes, and he wanted to help. 

He always wanted to help. 

The old woman smiled at him and reached out a mottled hand to ruffle his dark, unruly hair.  “Don’t worry, little one.  I’ve had worse in my time,” she said, her voice soft.  “Old, worn bones are just signs of a life well lived.”  Castiel pinched his lips together and felt the slide of a warm tear down his cheek.  He reached up to rub at his eyes with baby-soft knuckles. 

Then he leant forward, just a little.  Just enough to press his lips against the woman’s knee, because that’s what Anna did for him when he was hurt.  Anna told him momma used to kiss her like that, too. 

Castiel didn’t understand, but he didn’t need to.  He had faith.

The woman stared down at him, eyes a little watery, a small grin framed by deep lines around her mouth.  “Does it help?” Castiel asked, balling his hands into loose little fists and pulling them up against his chest.  He could feel the tug at his heart, painful, waiting.

The woman smiled at him, then, white teeth, eyes crinkled around the edges.  “What’s your name?” she asked.  

“Castiel,” he told her, feeling the tears roll down his cheeks, warm against the chill autumn air.

“That sounds like an angel’s name,” the woman said, and Castiel smiled through his tears, not bothering to wipe them away.  He didn’t know yet what it was to be ashamed of them. 

Anna and Gabriel found him there, not long after, his eyes still worn and puffy.  Anna stumbled up to him, her new white Mary Jane’s already streaked with mud, and took his hand in hers while Gabriel walked up to the woman.  He exhaled exaggeratedly and put on a big toothy smile.

“I’m sorry about my little brother, he ran off on me,” Gabriel told her, pulling his jacket closed, a little too small over his broad shoulders.  Anna nudged up against Castiel’s arm with her own.  Castiel watched the woman’s face soften, fingers once again working idly at her knee.

“It’s no trouble; he was just worried about me.  Your little brother has a very big heart.”  Gabriel laughed and nodded at that before he turned to walk away, Anna and Castiel trailing behind him.  Tears were still falling down Castiel’s round cheeks once they were at the car, and Gabriel looked down at him with a snide grin and a cocked eyebrow.

“C’mon Cassie, you’re too old to be so blubbery,” Gabriel teased.  Anna squeezed Castiel’s hand in hers before dropping it.  She turned toward Castiel and stared until he met her eyes, reaching her small hands out to wipe away the tears.

“Your eyes are so bright right now,” she told him with a smile.  “Castiel has big, pretty blue eyes like the sky, momma told me.” Gabriel huffed and ushered her into the car.  Once she was seated, he turned to Castiel, and with a grunt pulled him up into his arms.  Castiel buried his face in his older brother’s shirt.  Gabriel laughed, more sincerely this time.  He ruffled his hair and kissed him against his temple, bouncing him against his chest the way he used to do when Castiel was even younger.  Too young to really remember.  The motion still felt warm and familiar.

“Never change, Cassie.  Promise me you’ll never change.” 

 

Castiel was nine years old, and he cried quietly. 

Nights were the hardest.  Castiel didn’t sleep well anymore, memories of the afternoon still running wild in his head.  He clutched at his chest, too big t-shirt draped over his scrawny shoulders, placing his feet on the floor. 

He went to Anna, then. 

She reached out a hand to invite him to crawl into bed beside her, accepting it easily, without words.  He nestled up close, patting her pretty red hair with his hand as she blinked at him, slowly.  

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“I feel sick, like my chest hurts.  And… my head,” he said it even as he brought his palm up to his face, rubbing at his watery eyes.  “It’s too loud.”  He didn’t know how to explain it to her, and she screwed up her face.

“Did Miss Laney give you medicine?  Do I need to get daddy?” she asked in a small voice, setting her teddy off the side of the bed so Castiel could scoot in closer.  He shook his head. 

“She said… I wasn’t _sick_ sick, said I was having… panics?  From the test.”  She frowned at him and reached out to pat down his hair, and he felt a warm tear slide across his cheek, caught on the tip of his nose.  He wasn’t supposed to do that; he cried too much, Raphael told him.  He did everything too much.  Got too sad, too upset, too excited.  “I can’t stop, Anna.  I’m so sleepy.”

Anna started humming, then.  He knew the song, one of the ones she played over and over on her tape player.  He liked the sound of her voice, and he leaned in closer, trying to hear more.

“ _Living is easy with eyes closed_ _, misunderstanding all you see.  It's getting hard to be someone, but it all works out…_ ”  She sighed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.  “ _It doesn't matter much to me._ ” 

Castiel smiled and grabbed her hand, rested it between his own and closed his eyes.  He felt a calm wash over him, and she seemed to realize it because she kept singing till he drifted off. 

“ _Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to_ _strawberry fields._ ”

It wouldn’t always be that easy.

 

  
 

 

Castiel was twelve years old, and he tried not to cry. 

The injury stung and bled, but he barely noticed.  A girl from school had gone missing on a field trip, Castiel disobeying direction not to leave the group.  The thought of her alone and scared was too much.  He couldn’t handle it.  He couldn’t just sit there and wait, his heart thrumming against his ribs, lip between his teeth. 

Castiel’s father bandaged the wound on his arm, a mess of scrapes and bruises from his wrist to his elbow.

“You can’t let your emotions get the better of you,” his father said.  Castiel was worried he was angry with him.  He bowed his head, feeling the familiar aching in his chest.  “Hey now, you did a kind thing.  A brave thing.  Rules are set in place for a reason, though.  To keep you or your friends from getting hurt.” 

“What about Rachel?” he asked, biting his lip harder to keep himself from crying. 

“She’s fine, they found her.  She’s safe.” Castiel nodded, holding his breath, trying to keep his back straight.  “If you let your emotions control you, you can’t keep yourself safe.  Much less anyone else.”  His father reached out and tipped his chin up so he was forced to look at him. “I know that’s hard to understand right now.”  Castiel nodded slowly, running his fingers along the rough bandages on his forearm. His father pulled him into a gentle hug, then, large, coarse hands carding through his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel murmured against his father’s shirt.

 

Castiel was thirteen years old, and he could not cry. 

It had been weeks without a word, without a trace.  Castiel was young, but not so young that he didn’t understand what that meant.  Raphael called them all together.  He sat them down.  Anna gripped Castiel’s hand like a vice, and it still wasn’t enough.

“Father isn’t coming home.”

There was no denial, no grief or bargaining or even hysteria.  There was only the truth of the thing, the weight of it.  Like lead, like a dead star, a black hole.  It completely and utterly destroyed him in every sense of the word, changed him into something different. 

The worst part was that he could accept it. 

Castiel could accept that the words were truth because he had spent weeks building himself up to hear it, but it was nothing.  Nothing compared to what it actually felt like to _know_.  To have hope, even in the shadow of something, only to realize that you’d been wasting your time.  That it was meaningless.

He used to have faith.  How do you have faith when you’re faced with such undeniable, bleak, all-encompassing reality? 

Castiel could not cry.  He could not even keep the air in his lungs.  It felt like it had all been dragged out of him, kicking and screaming.  Anna tried to sing to him, a ready hand trailing down his spine and up again in soothing motions.  It was all he knew.  

Everything was different.

The walls of his home seemed starker than they ever had before, tiny fleur de lis peppered like ants around the base of their cream colored wallpaper.  Castiel focused on them, counted them even as he choked and rasped and ached.  Raphael looked at Castiel more openly that day, a way he hadn't in years, looked at him like he was damaged.  Later, he would even say it.  Castiel was a weed that needed to be pulled.

“If you don’t calm him, I will figure out how to do so.  We have enough to deal with now,” Raphael said.  Gabriel looked at Raphael like a challenge, his incisors bared.  There was nothing but disgust in his expression.

Castiel felt his little brother Uriel wrap his hand around his balled fists.  He tried to smile, but it hurt too much.

It wouldn’t be the last thing he lost.  Only a couple months later Gabriel had gone, the only thing left behind a note and a small plastic toy.  Castiel broke all over again.  

Raphael never had the patience.

 

Castiel was sixteen years old, and he chose not to cry.  

He stared at a blank wall, eyes tracing divots and worn smudges, pushing it down.  Keeping it locked up.  He had walked through her wake, earlier that morning, his brothers looking dutifully sad, and he had felt the ready ache of anxiety well in his gut, alongside unfamiliar grief.  A fist against his windpipe, a knife in between his shoulder blades.  But Castiel had learned. 

Later, he would clutch at his chest, fingers trembling as he gripped at the porcelain edges of his bathroom sink, dry heaving as if he could force the feelings out like congealed blood from an old, dirty wound.  He would not cry, though.  That night, he would not move.  His father was gone, Gabriel was gone, Anna was gone, and having nothing to pull him back, nothing to run toward, he would not move for a good while.  He would let himself drift, reality only something that touched him at the fringes of his thoughts.  It would be easier.

It _was_ easier.  The effort to stay present was a weight.  He was tired, and not from lack or want of sleep.

 

Castiel was seventeen years old, and he knew the cost of letting something cut him too deeply, letting himself give in.  It was time to stop.

\--

Sam stared at his fingers and pressed the nail of his thumb into the pad of each of them in turn, leaving white crescent shaped marks indented into the skin.  They were numb and tingling with cold.  Jess reached over, her slender fingers moving from the base of his wrist and over his palm as he flattened his hand.  He smiled as they laced with his, closing tight, the heat of her familiar and pleasant.  He squeezed.

“Can I tell you something without you freaking out?” Jess asked, moving closer to him on the bench outside the bus port, sky still dim in the early morning.  Sam stared at her for a moment, blinking.  Then he laughed.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could tell me that would freak me out.  I mean, have you met me?” He smiled, reaching out with his free hand to tuck errant strands of golden hair behind her ear.  She leaned into the touch, humming softly.

“Okay, but you can’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said with a small grin.  Jess took a lock of hair between her own fingers, twisting it mindlessly, a golden band wrapped around her slim digits like a maypole.  “You know how I said… like how I acted like I didn’t know who you were?”  She looked everywhere but back up at him.  “When we met in class your first day back?”  Sam frowned, moving to dig his nails into the inside of his elbow.  The pressure was grounding even through three layers of clothing.

“Yeah,” he breathed, voice shuddering vaguely.  “When you protected me.”

“Hardly,” she responded.  Jess kept her voice light even as she battled to get the words out.  “Well I uh, I actually remembered you.  From before you left.  We were in classes together.”

“What?”

“Yeah, well… yeah.”  She chuckled a little, a forced sort of thing.  It made Sam’s chest go tight.  “Remember that asshole… Gordon?”  Sam nodded and ran his thumb gently over Jess’, their fingers still laced together.  “Well… he used to pick on me all the time… I mean along with all those other kids, too, but he stopped after you stood up to him in front of the whole class.   I kinda…”  Jess smiled and licked her lips, tugging at the hair wrapped around her fingers.  “I totally had a gigantic crush on you after that, but you were with Ruby.”

Sam laughed, because it was all he could do.  His eyes traced her face, a hot blush creeping up her pale cheeks that had very little to do with the cold.  He reached his free hand up to run his fingers through her hair until it settled at the nape of her neck and stared at her, a smile still playing on his lips.  She refused to look back up at him.  “Hey,” he said softly, leaning forward and touching their foreheads together.  “You never even tried to talk to me.”

Jess laughed weakly and turned her head down, her cold nose brushing his own with the movement.  “I know, but she was so cool and you… I dunno.  I was silly about it.  I didn’t think you’d care.  I mean I was just this… mousy, shy little thing and she was… exciting!”  She sighed against his parted lips before turning her head till his nose brushed against her cheek.  His hands just kept sweeping against her skin, one thumb across her knuckles.  The other thumb was tucked just under the collar of her shirt.  “And, you know, she was all filled out already.  And I was still gawky.  I still am… like a little bit…”

“Jess, you’re… ridiculously beautiful, okay?”  he told her, nosing at her cheek to get her to turn her head.  She stayed put.

“And then you left and… and I thought I’d never see you again, but…”  Jess shook her head gently and Sam tightened his grip on her hand.    “But then I did… and I was like, _Jessica Moore if you don’t give it a shot I’ll never forgive you_.”  She brought her free hand up to her face and hid her eyes behind it.  Sam could feel the heat rushing off her in waves.  

Biting down his sudden fear, the anxious excitement pooling low in his gut, Sam let go of Jess’ hand and reached up to cup her cheek.  Their faces were still pressed together, skin against skin as he felt her shuddering slightly.   Her breath came out in ragged, quiet little gasps.  Slowly he pulled his face back.  He tilted her head till he could see her eyes again, finding them half lidded, soft and searching. 

“Is everything okay with you?  Are you… feeling any better?” she asked in hushed tones.  The trembling was evident in her voice.

“I’m doing good, really good.  Somehow,” he said, knowing he mostly meant it.  He hadn’t actively thought about his cravings in a while, only small twitches of need.  The most recent occasion had been during the last fight with his father.  He’d found it easy to bite down, his personal resolve to get better giving him more mental strength than he had ever managed before, even in rehab.  It was becoming simpler to let it all go.  He had something to look ahead for.  “Right now I feel great,” he breathed against her skin.  She sighed with a slight smile. 

Her hands reached up to grip at the front of his jacket, then.  She didn’t tug, didn’t pull him forward.  It was there, though, lingering in the spaces between them.  The possibility of… _something_.  Something good.  “Is it too soon?” he asked, his voice seeming far too small, far too young.  He had never been so nervous.  “Please tell me it isn’t too soon for this.  I’ll believe you,” he said, his breathing stuttered and shallow.  “I will, I promise.”

She shook her head gently and stared into his eyes.  The look was boring into him with a grip on his heart.  He thought it might pound out of his chest.  He breathed her in, nose brushing hers, breath twisted together, and hot, and stale, and perfect, and he moved, an inch.  Half an inch.  A hair’s breadth.  Their lips brushed and he found he couldn’t move, couldn’t think.  “It’s up to you.  It has to be up to you,” she said quickly, the words pressing against his lips as real as her breath.  “But, Sam I…”

Jess made a soft, surprised sound as he kissed her.  It was slow, and closed mouthed, awkward almost, but his heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his fingertips as he twined them into her hair.  Her hands relinquished their hold on his jacket so she could slide her arms around his waist, holding herself against him.  The feel of her bowled him over.  She was a pliant give that sang against his chest, a fire that burned against the chill of the cold that surrounded him. 

After a few long moments she pulled away and he placed a soft kiss against her cheek in her absence, taking a moment to appreciate the way her perfume smelled like lilac and honey, and her hair like rain.  “I thought,” she said suddenly, lips against his cheek, “When I saw you the day you came back, saw how they treated you…” she kissed him again, “I wanted to protect you, wanted to be brave like you’d been.  It wasn’t even selfish at first but then all those old feelings came back and I just…” 

Sam pulled back and kissed her on the mouth, more fervently this time, more assured, with more heat.  She sighed contentedly. 

“I just wanted you to feel the same,” she whispered, lips parting only to get the words out.

Sam didn’t say anything in response.  He just linked his large, skinny hands behind her neck and pulled her close, smiling against her lips.  She smiled back.

They stayed pressed together for a short while longer, before Sam sighed, tucking his face against her neck.  “I’m already late for my meeting with Missouri,” he told her softly.  She hugged him tightly in response, laying a quick little kiss into the mess of his hair.  The first buses were starting to pull into the lot and they were no longer alone. 

“Yeah I know, I’ll meet you in the hall when you’re done?” she asked.  He nodded simply, pulling himself out of her arms and placing a kiss against her cheek.  “Good.”

Sam gave Jess’ hand a small squeeze before he pushed himself off of the bench and headed around the building, past shuttered classroom windows as the breeze funneled itself up through the covered sidewalk.  He pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders, smiling like an idiot once he was sure Jess couldn’t see it anymore.  It felt right.  It felt good to finally have something normal, something almost easy.  Caring for Jess and being with Jess had always seemed the simplest thing in the world.  He knew he still had a long way to go, but he was happy, damn it.  Being happy was the opposite of a problem.  Jess was everything he’d never had.

Sam was so caught up in his own thoughts that the hands around his shoulders took him by surprise, the weight of another body encompassing him at his front, a second at his back. He attempted to throw his elbows backward.  A thick, dry hand covered over his mouth before he could shout for help.

“You’re only making this harder for yourself, Winchester,” he heard a low voice grate against his ear.  _No, no, no.  Please no._   Sam took in massive, stale breaths as they tugged him away from the building, toward the nature trail the track runners used for training.  He couldn’t see his assailant’s faces, the man in front obscured by a dark hooded sweatshirt and the one behind him completely out of his line of vision.  He kicked and flailed as much as he could manage, his mind reeling as he tried to remember what his father had taught him to do.  What Dean had said.  _Don’t panic.  First of all don’t panic._

Don’t panic?

Sam tried to shout, the sound muffled, and vague, and _helpless_.

He was fifteen years old.  It was impossible not to panic when he was so outmatched.  He’d only managed to slow their steady trek forward.  Tightening the hand holding Sam, the man at his back growled low, and pushed them forward into the trees.  Sam swung his legs out frantically, the heel of his boot digging into the shin of the man behind him.  

Then Sam felt a fist connect with the back of his neck.  Pain shot from the spot to between his eyes, searing, blinding.  He grunted against the man’s hand covering his mouth, his knees going weak.  He felt discombobulated, confused, dizzy.  He couldn’t tell up from down or why they were suddenly rocking him haplessly from side to side. Sam shut his eyes tight and kicked out again, a curse ripped from the man in front of him as Sam’s foot connected with his ankle. 

Another blow landed at the base of his skull.  Pain ripped through him, and his ears rang as he slumped forward.  Flowers of light bloomed behind his eyelids before he blacked out.

\--

Castiel avoided the familiar places as he walked through the halls of the school.  It was mindless, really, just a necessary precaution.  His brothers were already in their classrooms at this point, but it didn’t matter.  Castiel sighed and rolled his shoulders back, his fingers twitching almost imperceptibly as he neared his locker.  Other students just brushed past him, unminding. 

When he stopped in front of his locker, Castiel just stared.  He trailed his fingers down the cool metal, landing on the blue faced combination lock hung on the catch.  Everything was sort of… coming in and out, like an old television set.  He was aware, more or less, where he was, what he was doing, but nothing was really making a connection. He felt, for a moment, separated from himself, like he had pulled away and was now watching everything happen from the other end of the hall.  It would have been terrifying if it hadn’t been so familiar.

Then he heard a voice that brought him back, a sudden and intense clarity that brought panic with it.  He forced it away before he turned around.  Sam stood behind him.  His stance was dangerously unsteady, his left hand closed over the inside of his elbow on his right arm.

“Cas, hey Cas,” he said, voice light and flighty and… off.  It was off.  Castiel gaped at him for a moment before he said anything.  Sam just grinned.

“You really can’t be here,” Castiel said quietly, his eyes darting from one end of the hall to the other.  “Do you understand?”

“What,” Sam laughed, “What…” Sam’s eyes lilted shut and Castiel threw his arms out to grab his shoulders, shaking him mildly.  Sam took a deep breath and seemed to attempt to pry them back open.  The motion was slow and awkward, and for half a second Castiel felt like he was going to be sick.  When Sam finally forced his eyes open, Castiel took a moment and stared at them.  His pupils were like pinpricks, whites rimmed in red.

“Sam, what did you do?” Castiel asked him, gaze going wide as his mind raced.  Where could he take him that would be safe?

“Nothin’, what?  Woke up, felt…” Sam giggled again, high pitched, his fingernails digging into his arm before he reached up to rub at his nose.  “Oh wow what… what happened…”  Sam’s eyes went wide and cloudy for a moment, the grin faltering into something that sent fear straight to the pit of Castiel’s gut. 

“Where is Dean?” he asked him, slowly, carefully.  Sam just stared up at him, his lips pressed together.

“Not here,” he eventually replied with a concentrated effort.  Castiel sucked in a breath, and without thinking he grabbed Sam around his shoulders and headed toward the offices.  There was only one person who might listen, and Castiel had to try.

The remainder of the other students rushed to make it to homeroom, paying Castiel and Sam little attention.  Sam could easily pass as ill, or overtired if no one investigated too closely.  Castiel knew what people looked like when they’d shot up, though.  He really, really wished he didn’t.  Castiel veered him down through the hallways, praying they wouldn’t get stopped by anyone, any teachers.  Sam kept nodding off, though, lolling his head about and pushing his weight into him, setting him off balance.  Castiel just widened his stance and picked up the pace, heading toward an office door labeled ‘M. Mosley’.

Wrapping one arm tight around Sam’s waist, Castiel raised his other hand to knock frantically, hearing the creak of wooden furniture beyond the door.  After a couple of terrifying, quiet moments the door swung open.  A stout woman eyed Castiel with a curved eyebrow, lingering on him before her gaze darted to Sam.  Her mouth parted slightly. 

She moved to the side, allowing a small space to enter the room, but Castiel just stood there, trying to calm his breathing till everything began to vaguely fade.

“What are you waiting for, boy, bring him in,” she snapped, keeping her voice low.

Castiel blinked up at her, and nodded quickly, pulling Sam into the room alongside him.  Missouri closed the door with a small click.

“What in God’s name,” she muttered, watching as Sam stumbled lamely toward the couch, collapsing in a heap.  “You best tell me what the hell happened before I report you both to the principal.”

“It’s heroin,” Castiel said, not knowing how to soften the blow.  Missouri’s big, dark eyes went wide.  “I don’t know how much he’s told you.  I just didn’t know where else to bring him.”

“You have to be outside of your God damn mind to bring him here,” she said angrily, her voice still low and moving around her office as she glanced back and forth to the door.  She walked toward it, and after a moment’s hesitation she turned the lock.  Castiel heard her sigh as her gaze moved to Sam again.  Her arms were still crossed over her chest even as her expression softened.  Sam’s eyes fluttered shut and open like he was quickly falling in and out of sleep.  “Were you with him?” she asked.  Sam laughed sleepily to himself.

“Cas.  Cas, man we miss you.  Did you know that?  Come…” Sam paused, his mouth lolling open for a second as he reached up to rub at his nose again, his eyes.  “Come home.”  Castiel felt his chest go tight, trying to ignore him.

“So you’re Cas?” Missouri asked, still frowning, but with a glint of recognition in her eyes. 

“I am,” Castiel answered, pausing to take a deep breath.  “I wasn’t with him when it happened, but I know he didn’t do this to himself.  If he’s reported he could be sent away.  It would…” Castiel balled his hands into fists, straightened his back.  “It would destroy him.”  _It would destroy Dean._

“Who did it, then?” she asked, dropping her arms to her sides and walking closer to him.  Castiel could feel the blood rushing, thrumming in his hands, loud in his ears.

“I don’t know,” he told her, refusing to meet her eyes and licking his lips.  Her frown deepened.

“Don’t lie to me, boy.  I’m not stupid.”

“I…” Castiel’s voice caught in his throat.  He didn’t know.  Not really.  But he had an idea, a horrible idea.  One that made him feel like hands had been shoved clean through his skin, into his stomach. Twisting.  It was all going badly, he kept messing everything up.

“You can tell me,” Missouri’s voice broke through his panic, his pain.  It was softer now.

“It might be my fault.  I just… I can’t get anyone else involved.  I can’t.”

“You have to talk to someone.”

“I’m not lying when I say I don’t know who it was.  Please, just take care of Sam.  His brother…” Castiel felt a pressure behind his eyes, a dull ache in his chest.  He shuffled nervously, balling up his fists and pushing them into the pockets of his jacket. “He’ll want to know.  He’ll want to be with him.  I can’t stay,” Castiel turned and looked at Sam, who had sat up and was eyeing him, breathing slowly through his parted lips.

“Cas,” he said, softly, like it took a great effort to say it even though he’d been repeating it since he’d found him.  “Cas, do you hate me?” 

_What?_

Castiel stared at him, moving slowly forward before he dropped to his knees in front of Sam.  He clasped his hands together, trying not to shake.

“No,” he said, and his voice shuddered.  “Sam, absolutely not, no.”  Castiel looked up, and Sam’s eyes started to fall shut again.  He smiled, though.  A sad, lost little twitch of his lips.  Castiel knew he was fighting a battle between this, what was real, and the drug pumping through him, trying as hard as he could not to get lost in it.  “I’m so, so sorry Sam.  Believe me when I say I am sorry.  This is all my fault.”  Sam’s hazel eyes went watery before he leaned forward, his forehead pressed against Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel froze, Sam trembling against him.  He did what little he could to keep himself separate from it, from the feel of him.   He held his breath, ran lyrics through his head, tried to wrench himself physically away.   He couldn’t, though.  Not in the end. Castiel wrapped his arms around Sam’s lanky shoulders. 

“You can get through this, you are stronger than you think,” Castiel said softly, hand rubbing circles against Sam’ back.  “You are stronger than _this_.”  Sam didn’t reply, but he raised his own arms and wrapped them around Castiel, fingers gripping lamely at his jacket.

After a few, long moments Castiel pulled himself away from Sam and stood, facing Missouri.  She eyed him with a forceful interest, and maybe something like affection.  “Don’t tell Dean I was here.  Please,” he pleaded.  He directed the words to Missouri, but they were more for Sam.  She nodded, the edges of her mouth turned down.

“You know, you can’t keep trying to do everything on your own.  It’ll break you apart,” Missouri told him.  Her eyes were sad, and Castiel couldn’t look at them.

“Better me than them.”

Castiel felt her eyes on his back until the door shut behind him. 

\--

Sam felt… good.  He felt calm, most of all, like a weight had been lifted.  It was hard to care about anything, it was hard to _try_.  He didn’t even particularly want to because why would he?  Why would he choose to feel more pain?  He could just sit here, on Missouri’s couch, and just feel.  Good.

But he knew, in the back of his mind.  Like a dull thumbnail raking at a crumbling wall.  He knew this was bad.

_Who cares?_

Sam ran his thumb over the inside of his elbow, wishing he could _feel_ it through layers of clothing.  His skin was… irritated.  But it didn’t hurt, didn’t really bug him.  He just wanted to get at it.  Sam felt himself smiling, felt the laugh pull up from his throat.  He felt like he wanted to go to sleep.

“Sam, _Sam_.  Look at me, your brother’s gunna be here soon.”  Sam looked up at her, opened his mouth to answer.  Nothing came out.  He started nodding in its place, small little jerks of his head.  He heard her huff and mutter to herself, but the words were lost to him.  His eyes began to shut again, and Sam felt himself drift off. 

It was so peaceful, too.  He thought he could sleep; thought he could have good dreams instead of just nightmares or… nothing.  God, the idea of it was almost enough to excite him, but really.  Really, he was too tired for excitement.

He must have fallen asleep because soon his shoulders were being jostled around.  There were hands on his face, thumbs pressed above his eyelids.  Sam focused and saw Dean standing above him, a pained look, and Sam wanted to fix it, but he wasn’t sure he knew what was wrong.

Then, he remembered.  Again.  He just kept remembering, like falling in and out of a dream.  It made him feel ill, stomach turning, mouth tasting like vinegar, acrid and vile.  Sam raised his hands and covered his brother’s with them, fingers tightening.  “I want to go home,” he told Dean.

Missouri must have spoken with Dean, he realized, but he hadn’t been paying attention.  He might have drifted off again.  Before he knew it he was in the front seat of the Impala with his head slumped against his brother’s shoulder.  The compulsion to puke was becoming almost overwhelming, but Dean would kill him if he messed up his baby.  Sam swallowed the sensation and tried to focus on the road, the way the leather seat cradled him.  There was only the steady buzz and thrum of the engine at his back, beneath his legs.

By the time they made it back home Sam was almost dead weight for want of sleep.  He ached to curl up in blankets, feel the soft cotton against his bare limbs.  He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and Dean moved to his side, wrapping his arm around his shoulder to lead him into the house. 

It was odd how quiet Dean was, Sam suddenly realized.  He should be upset, should be angry.  He should be asking questions.  Not that Sam wanted any of that, but he expected it.  It bothered him how unbelievably calm Dean was about the entire situation.  And right then Sam was more or less supposed to be the epitome of calm.  It didn’t seem to be sticking, though, even as it came and went.  It was a feeling equally as capricious as his impulse to empty his stomach.  Sam reached up to palm at his face, eyes burning.

Before Sam even realized how far he’d gotten his back was pressed against the cool mattress of his bed, Dean tugging off his boots silently.  Sam closed his eyes, the euphoria suddenly intoxicating.  All his thoughts sloughed away like liquid off of smooth stone.  “Dean,” he murmured, trying to keep his eyes open and failing.  He felt his brother still at the edge of the bed, and Sam tried to hold onto the words he needed to get out.  They stuck in his throat.

Dean leaned over, hands braced against his side as he rolled Sam over. He grabbed a pillow and pressed it up between his back and the mattress, propping him on his side.

“Sleep it off, Sammy,” Dean told him quietly, pushing himself off the bed and moving toward the door.  With the soft flick of a switch the light was gone from the room.  “I’ll be here when you wake up.”  Sam nodded absently and curled into himself, trying not to smile, because he shouldn’t be smiling.  He hadn’t ever been so comfortable in this bed, though.  Not ever.  It was warm, inviting, the comforter wrapped around him, holding him in place. 

Everything else fell away, aside from the physicality of his sensations, his calm.  It was hard work, caring, and so he didn’t. 

He just drifted off.

\--

Dean stared at the beer bottle, gone lukewarm at the center of the coffee table.  Water pooled at the base of it, a thin ring that would leave a dark mark against the cheap wooden panel.  He didn’t quite give a shit.  He’d set his cellphone next to it, and he glanced back and forth between the two.

He should call his father, because he was out of his fucking depth.  But what would John even do?  Pack up and come home?  Heh, yeah.  Maybe.  He’d always been more willing to make time for Sam.  But would it even fucking help? 

Sam would hate him.

Dean scrubbed at his face with his rough, dry hand.  His eyes squeezed shut, teeth gnawing together, his jaw aching from what felt like hours of it.  He kept getting up and walking to Sam’s room, peeking in to make sure his brother was okay, still breathing.  It felt wrong not to rush him to a hospital, but it seemed like the goal wasn’t to get Sam to overdose, just…

Fuck, to get him hooked again and ruin everything.

Screw them.  Dean grabbed his cell in his shaking fist and stared at the wall opposite him.  He bit back the urge to toss it across the room, let it smack and crack against the plaster.  Instead, he looked down at it, his thumb hovering over the call button he’d spent the last few hours avoiding.

He could avoid it a little longer.

Dean dropped the phone back on the table and walked away, his uncapped and untouched beer staring at him from across the room.  He itched to pick it up, but it felt wrong.  The walk to the window took no time at all, Dean pulling back the curtains and staring onto their shitty little street.  He saw one of his neighbors with their dog in the front lawn.  It was unnerving, so completely fucking mundane.  He wondered how, when shit happened, life just seemed to go on for everyone else.

Footsteps pulled him away from his thoughts.  Dean turned to stare at Sam, who was standing at the doorway to their living room, his arms sagging at his sides, face downcast.  He looked pale, sickly pale.

“Sammy?” Dean asked, moving forward the smallest amount.  Sam flinched.

“I puked,” he said simply.  “On my fucking bed.”

Dean stared at him, frowning.  “Yeah, alright.  We’ll, ya know.  Do laundry.  No big deal.”  Sam looked up at him, then, incredulous, and Dean pulled back.  “Do you need somethin’?” Dean asked, for lack of… anything else to say that wasn’t just a barrage of questions Sam probably didn’t want to answer at the moment.

“Dude,” Sam breathed, reaching up to card his fingers through his hair.  “Yeah, I need, I need _more_.  Fuck, Dean, _fuck_.” Sam started pulling at his hair, stepping forward and then back again like he couldn’t figure out where he wanted to go.  Dean’s gut twisted up.  Sam took deep, calming breaths before he finally let go of his hair, moving his hand to dig his fingernails against the inside of his elbow.  The skin was angry; red and raw.  Dean wanted to tell him to stop.

“I was… I’m so angry.  What the hell do I do now, huh?  It’s not even outta me yet, it’s not even done.  I can fucking feel it just… it’s fucking leaking out of me and I’m so scared.”  Sam’s voice was raw and pleading, Dean watching as the skin began to tear against his fingernails.  The veins were visible.  It made Dean feel physically ill.  He walked forward, then, and pulled Sam into his arms.  He held him tight.  “I can’t do it again,” Sam said against his shoulder.  “I never wanted to do it again.  God damn it was so good, it was so much better than… because it had been _so long_.”

“Don’t give up on me, man,” Dean murmured into his brother’s hair, feeling how small and breakable he was.  And here Sam had been trying to take care of him for the past few weeks.  Fuck.  “It’s you and me, huh?  You and me against the world, just like when we were kids.”

“Just like always,” Sam said back, his laughter broken up, rattling dangerously.  His body shook with it.  “Everyone… everyone keeps asking me why I did it, like… ya know… peer pressure couldn’t have been the only reason.  But… what if it was?” Sam breathed out, as if to center himself.  Dean just kept holding on, like both of their lives depended on it.  “What if it was just my anger?  And yeah maybe it… maybe it felt good not to be angry anymore, to feel.  To _not_ feel.  To just be happy.”

“I know, Sam.  God, I know,” Dean said, finally pulling back so he could look his brother in the face.  There were tears at the edges of his eyes.  “I’m gunna try, okay?  We’re… you and me, we’re gunna get through this together.  You gotta go clean again?  Awesome.  Me too.  It’ll be like, a brother bonding thing.”  Dean tried to smile, even as his eyes burned.  “Just don’t let it destroy you.  I can’t do this without you, understand?”

Sam stared up at him, lips pressed together.  Dean held his breath. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, and Dean exhaled.

Dean sat Sam on the couch and turned on the television, reaching out to grab his beer bottle.  Sam eyed him, but Dean just shrugged and walked into the kitchen, heading straight for the sink.  He poured it out.  Once it was gone he tossed the empty bottle into the trash bin with a soft thud. 

There were still questions; still shit he needed to know.  Still that fear rattling around in the back of his head.  But this was more important.  Everything else could wait.

\--

Castiel pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders, blinking against the frigid air.  He eyed small, flurries of snow that had begun to fall not even an hour earlier, the ground already covered in a light frost.  His shoes crunched against it, almost deafening in the silence of the evening.  It was so late, but it had to be.  He couldn’t afford to be caught leaving again.

Even as he resolved himself to keep moving forward, he drifted in and out.  Lapses of time passed between when he was fully aware and when he was on autopilot.  It wasn’t exactly forgetting; it was just a separation.  It was like he was watching himself make these choices, putting one foot in front of the other.  There was no need to dwell on it.  This was about a decision he’d made.  This was about finally reaching the breaking point.

Turning onto a familiar street, Castiel saw a homeless man making shelter beneath a café awning, his meager belongings stacked up beside him as a makeshift bed.  He shivered in the cold, and Castiel felt it tug at him.  Stopping for a moment, he changed course and approached the man, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. 

“Excuse me,” Castiel said softly, and the man looked up at him.  His face was a mess of matted hair and streaks of grime, nose red from the cold.  Castiel bent down as he pulled a small wad of bills from his wallet.  He didn’t have much, but he had something.  He hoped it would help.  The man stared up at him, his eyes bleary as Castiel held out the money for him to take. 

“You sure, kid?” he asked, a gloved hand reaching out to cover his own.  He didn’t make any move to pull away.

“You need this more than I do,” Castiel said.

The man took the money, a smile splitting his face. “Thank you,” he said.  Castiel managed a half smile.

“Try and stay warm.”

Castiel moved away from the man, tucking his wallet back into his pocket.  He was close now, the street familiar.  After a few more minutes he approached a staircase that led up to the apartment, taking each step tentatively as he noticed thin layers of ice pooling at edges of the worn concrete.  When he approached the door, his fist faltered for a moment, inches away.  Then, resolving himself, he knocked.

From inside he heard muffled yelling, a small crash.  Castiel grimaced.

After a long wait, the door swung open.

“Oh.  Well, well, if this isn’t an unexpected surprise.”  Crowley stood in the doorway, shirtless with long, vague red slashes covering his shoulders and chest and a black leather collar around his neck.  He grinned and opened the door wider, Meg standing to the side, barely dressed at all except for a pair of black panties and a tight vest that barely covered anything.  She grinned at him and arched her eyebrow.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away,” she purred.  “To what do we owe this late night foray, darling?  Interested in joining in?  I bet you’ve got one _hell_ of a kinky side.”  Castiel narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I rethought your offer.  What do you need me to do?”


	15. Chapter 15

Dean’s hands were sore. 

He stared down at them. Flexed them. His skin was dried out from the watered down bleach, from having scoured every damn surface in their small kitchen.  Every line was visible, edges cracking, some red and close to bleeding.  He thought of bandages, of scrubbing himself clean as well.  After a moment, a blink and a shake of his head, he tossed a handful of wadded up, bleach soaked paper towels into the trash and reached up to palm at his face, to run a hand through his hair.

His eyes burned with exhaustion, but adrenaline kept pulsing through his body.  Kept him awake, kept him alert.  Kept him moving.

The analogue clock on the stove read 4:26 AM.

He made his way to the counter, picking at a spot of caked on grime he hadn’t quite been able to wipe away with his fingernail.  He pursed his lips, took shallow breaths.  He felt lightheaded from the dense cloud of chemical cleaner that had settled in the air.  There was something intensely comforting about going through the motions, putting something inanimate back together.  It was why he loved working on cars so much.  It was control.

The living room was next.  Dean reset the cushions on the couch, folded blankets that still smelled like popcorn and beer, and (God help him) sex.  He ignored it, picked up weeks old empty beer bottles, stacked up used paper plates, and set the remote on the coffee table when he found it half shoved under the couch. 

When he knelt down to check for any other odds and ends, he saw a small gleam of reflected light.  Dean reached out, his hand clasping something attached to a thin chain that caught the light as he pulled it back.  Opening his hand, he saw a familiar oval-shaped pendant. 

There was a face etched into it… ‘Saint Jude’ it said at the base in barely legible golden text. 

Dean swallowed, breathed out through his nose, and ran a thumb over the uneven surface, lending the cold metal some warmth from his hands.  Standing, he tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans.  It pressed in comfortably alongside his worn leather wallet.

There was a soft rustling, and Dean stood upright, trying to pinpoint where the sound had come from.  It took a minute before he realized it had come from the direction of Sam’s bedroom.

 He walked slowly into the dimly lit hallway and paused outside his brother’s door, listening for a moment.  When he didn’t hear anything he pushed his way in, finding Sam cross legged at the end of his bed, face in his hands.

“What was that?” Dean asked, his voice a little more gruff than he meant it to be.  He felt pulled taut, the exhaustion like needles in his skin and behind his eyes.

 “What was what?” Sam asked back, not even attempting to mask his own frustration.  Dean sighed and walked further into his brother’s room, eying the books scattered across the floor.

“The noise, man.  Did you break something?  Why are you even awake?”

“Why are  _you_?” Sam snapped, lowering his arms to latch fingernails into the raw, red skin at the inside of his elbow.  “It was my phone.  And it’s nightmares.  Leave me alone.”

Dean rolled his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek, moving forward to kneel at the edge of Sam’s bed.  Taking his brother’s wrist in one hand, he moved to rest his opposite palm against the raw skin, protecting it from further abuse.  Sam frowned at him and bundled his hands into fists.  Dean just smiled weakly in return.

“Jess keeps texting me,” Sam told him, quietly.  “I don’t want to deal with this.”

“Deal with what?” Dean asked, closing his hand more tightly against Sam’s arm.  He thought the pressure might help.

“I’m not… okay, Dean.  I… look, I kissed her, and now…” Sam reached up and shoved his fingers through his hair, closed his eyes.  “I can’t do this.  It would fucking figure that this would happen now, you know?”  Sam slowly opened his eyes, looking around aimlessly.   Dean tried to meet them, but Sam seemed intent not to make eye contact.  “I was an idiot for thinking I could be normal.  I’m never gunna be that, though.  Ever.”

Dean frowned, lowering his eyes.  He could see the map of Sam’s veins through his skin, blue against pale peach.  It made his stomach turn.  “Who fuckin’ cares,” he said quietly.  “You can’t just stop livin’ your goddamn life.  Don’t let what they did… don’t let it break you down.  Don’t do that to her, and sure as hell don’t do it to yourself.”

Sam sighed and finally met his brother’s gaze, his hazel eyes ringed in bruises that mirrored Dean’s own.  “I’m no good for her.  This isn’t gunna end well.”  Sam’s voice was small, and it hit Dean suddenly just how… young he was.  It was so damn easy to forget.

“Sometimes shit… it ends bad, Sammy.”  Sam’s eyes went soft at the slight shudder in Dean’s voice.  Dean swallowed, held on tighter to his brother’s arm… for both of them, this time.  “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, putting his hand over Dean’s for a split second, staring straight through the walls, all the bullshit Dean had built up.  Leave it to his little brother to do that so fucking easily, to tear them all down again, to make it all  _okay_.

“Hell yeah,” Dean smiled.  It was surprisingly genuine.  He reached a hand up to his face, rubbed his stinging eyes.  “Give yourself a damn reason to stay clean.  Have a life you wanna protect.  Staying locked up in your own head, that’ll mess you up.  I can’t watch you do that to yourself, Sammy.”  Sam pinched his lips together, gave him a small, tight little nod.  Dean reached out to muss up his hair.

“How you feelin’?  You know, physically?” Dean asked, pushing himself back up into a standing position.

“Like absolute shit on a stick.  Do you have any candy hidden around here?  I already gutted the freezer.”

“Dude,” Dean chastised, pulling a face. “You ate my fuckin’ malt balls?”  Sam just grinned and shrugged his skinny shoulders.  Dean sighed.  “No.  Do I need to run out?”

“It’d fucking help, not gonna lie,” Sam smiled.   The color was already coming back in his cheeks.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.  I’ll make a run,” Dean said, turning to leave.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam asked as his hand closed around the knob.  Dean went still, feeling dread prick idly at the back of his neck.  “You, uh, you really had it bad.  Like, really bad… didn’t you?”  Dean stood still while Sam took an audible breath.  “For Cas.”

Dean let out a low, hollow, breathy laugh.  “Yeah, uh…” Dean ran a hand through his hair and shut his eyes.  “Yeah, it doesn’t matter much now, though.  I think I, uh… I think I fucked that up sorta beyond repair.”  He didn’t know why he was suddenly saying it.  He hadn’t even let himself think it.  That look Cas gave him, standing outside the Impala as Dean backed out, arms still bare even though it had been fucking freezing that night.  He didn’t know what to do with that look.  He didn’t really know what to do with any of it.

“What?” Sam asked, “Did something-”

“Drop it, Sam.  I had mine.” Dean smiled softly, letting himself feel it properly, maybe for the first time.  He’d just gotten caught up so fast… in him, in all of it.  The feeling, thinking back it was all… alarmingly bittersweet.  “It’s okay.  Just go get yours, right?” Dean turned to make his exit, feeling his brother’s eyes on his back as he shut the door closed between them.

He moved to find his jacket and keys, still not ready to sleep.  Not yet. With a small twitch of his lips, Dean left.

\--

“You really don’t know how to use a phone, do you?” Crowley drawled, frowning through the half open apartment door.  “I’m indecent.  And busy,  _alarmingly_ busy.”

“You’re always indecent.  We need to talk,” Castiel said, voice low, reaching up to rub at the bridge of his nose.  It was numb with cold.  “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”  Crowley sighed and opened the door wide enough that Castiel could walk through, his worn dress shoes scuffing against the mat.

“Do you sleep?” Crowley groused, tipping his head to the side with a small pop.  Castiel closed his eyes, shook out his limbs.  He drifted, half a second, before he pulled himself back.

“Not generally,” Castiel answered, voice laced with impatient sarcasm.  “You said you needed information.” 

Castiel made his way toward the messed up futon, dropping to the edge, knees pulled up against his chest.  After he’d come here a few days ago and gotten what he considered a pittance of information, he’d been trying, generally in vain, to dig up intel on his brother.  It didn’t take long to realize he was running himself in circles, and he hadn’t even had a chance to get into his brother’s study yet.  The longer it took to get started, the more he felt the anxiety building in his chest.

“God, you’re wound up tight,” Crowley murmured as he walked around the room, circling back to sit in a worn armchair across from the futon.  "Just give me a bleeding second." Crowley was dressed only in a pair of dark cotton briefs, his body short and stocky, a soft midsection and thin limbs.  The overall effect wasn’t particularly displeasing.  He couldn’t exactly ignore the reddened welts on the back of Crowley’s thighs and shoulder’s, though.  Crowley didn’t seem to pay them much mind. 

Castiel shut his eyes, steepled his hands, and pressed his nose carefully between them.  He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, waiting, letting his mind blank out, separating himself from it. For a while he watched himself watching Crowley, and it felt like calm. Then he felt a hand press against his shoulder.  Castiel looked up at Meg, her eyes searching and heavy lidded before she cocked an eyebrow at him.  It was softer than usual.  Castiel afforded her a small upturn of his lips.

She walked toward the chair, then, placing a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and bending down to press her lips to his ear.

Crowley and Meg moved around one another carefully, differently than they had the first couple of times Castiel had been here.  Crowley sat forward in the old armchair, Meg touching over the welts on his skin almost tentatively, circling him and looking him over, a small pinch of her brow.  Until this point, Castiel had wondered, fleetingly, how the two of them functioned so often in close quarters when most of the time they were at each other’s throats.  This was something else, though, something quieter.  Even Crowley seemed more subdued. 

“Don’t gawk, it’s called aftercare.”  Crowley said with a roll of his eyes, reaching over his shoulder to catch Meg’s hand in his own.  He ran a thumb over her knuckles as he pulled it toward his face, placing a slow, reverent kiss against the heel of her palm. 

“They’re deep,” Meg said, dark eyes scanning the torn skin of his shoulders.  She looked conflicted, for a moment, before Crowley laughed, low, breathy, and rasping.

“You did beautifully, love,” he replied, almost under his breath.  Meg nodded and moved away from him, but not before running a hand through his dark hair.  Crowley’s gaze trained after her as she disappeared into the next room, taking a breath before turning back to look at Castiel.

“I need to know what you’re trying to do,” Castiel said tentatively, taking too long a pause, to breathe.  “What exactly is the plan?”

Crowley sighed, leaning over the arm of the chair to grab an open pack of cigarettes from a messy end table.  “I told you,” he said simply, smacking the pack against the palm of his left hand.  Pulling out a slightly bent cigarette, Crowley frowned when he seemed to realize he didn’t have a book of matches stashed in his briefs.  “Fuck,” he breathed, and almost on cue Meg walked back in, a small collection of bandages and salve in one hand, a metal lighter in the other.  She smirked at him, flicking it open, Crowley leaning in toward the small flame, breathing the cigarette to life.

“You told me you needed information.  What does that mean?  Do you need the location of the building he works out of? Names of his suppliers?”  Castiel asked, running his thumbs idly across the seams of his slacks.  “You’re resourceful, this is information you could get for yourself.”

“Too true,” Crowley said, wincing when Meg ran her thumb over a particularly deep cut near the base of his neck, spreading medicine into the wound.  “Look, I’m a salesman, Castiel.  This works much the same as any other venture, if I want to overpower your brother, all I really need to do is chip away at his assets.  Give me names, major buyers, people I can win over.  This isn’t a turf war.”  Meg let out a sharp laugh at that, and Crowley rolled his eyes at her, leaning into the touch.  “Well, it is, but it’s also  _business_.  There’s plenty I can find, and have found, for myself.”

Castiel cocked his head to the side, trying to ignore his own heartbeat, that uncomfortable itch he always had at the back of his head, his anxiety.  He pulled himself away from it. Time passed strangely, too slow and too fast.  Crowley grinned at him, taking a long drag of his cigarette, the tip flaring a bright orange as ash fell to the floor in a packed little stack.  Meg eyed it with muted frustration, but her touch stayed gentle.

“You, though, you have access to his personal accounts.  You know what they say, love.  Knowledge is power, and I live for power.”

Castiel knew he’d heard the last few words Crowley had spoken, but then they sort of started to slough away, like dead skin.  He kept staring forward, in the general direction of Crowley’s mouth, saying something about “leverage” and “accounts”, Meg’s hands shining with salve against his bare shoulders.  Every word came at him, brushed against the shell of his ears before falling away again, and he nodded in agreement, _watched_ himself nodding in agreement, though when he thought about it, he wasn’t certain what he’d agreed to.  It was all practiced motions.  The itch dulled.

“Castiel,” she said.  Castiel lifted his eyes, and he saw her, saw that frown press against the edges of her pink lips.  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, avoiding it.

There was a glass wall between himself and everything around him, an unsteady displacement.

“Cas?” That name pulled him back with a jolt, and he shook his head, made himself focus on it.  On him… no her.  It was Meg talking to him.

“What?” Castiel asked, blinking up at her with a strange clarity.  She frowned.  “I’m sorry, I…”

“Why are you doing that?” She asked with that borderline petulant lilt that never really seemed to go away, like everything she said was said in mocking.  It wasn’t harsh, though.  It sounded like actual concern.

“Do what?” He asked her, straightening up, palms flat against the mattress.  Meg frowned at him and let her hands drop away from Crowley’s shoulders, a loss Crowley seemed momentarily uncomfortable with, though he didn’t say anything.  She walked up to Castiel with her arms crossed over her chest, sizing him up.

“My line of work, you meet a lot of… damaged people.”  Castiel winced at the word, frowning.  Meg sighed impatiently and took half a step backward.  “Touchy subject… obviously.  But it’s true.”  She paused, arms still pulled in tight against her chest.  Crowley took a renewed interest in the short, smoked down cigarette butt pinched between his fingers, reaching out to grab a new stick from the pack.  Castiel was focused on his movements until Meg spoke again.  “Look, sometimes we get bad johns.  Sometimes they like to do shit to us that we don’t agree to, they like to get rough, you understand?  I know that look.  I’ve seen it.  You’re going… I dunno, somewhere else.”

Castiel stared at her, feeling the heavy ache well in his chest, a feeling he associated with his house, his brothers, with being small and watery-eyed, and not knowing how to make it stop.  He shoved it down.

“And yeah, you know I’ve blanked out with some john’s ugly mug staring down at me while he takes way more than he’s paid for,” she said, her tone hard and decisive, almost sarcastic like she was afraid to even hint at weakness.  “I don’t like not getting paid,” she tacked on.  Crowley grimaced, staring forward with a fresh cigarette between his lips.  He lit it with the still-burning end of the old butt.  A yellow singe flared between them, a thin blanket of smoke rising up from his thin lips.

“It’s just something you learn.  Like, how you keep walking until you’re home again.  It’s defensive.  You were doing it when you first got here, and you were doing it again a second ago.  Why?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answered.  Meg cocked an eyebrow at him, shifted her weight between her right and left foot.  “I thought you didn’t care.”

“I’m in a _mood,_ alright?” She shot back, turning to Crowley who was too busy working down his cigarette to engage her.  “I was curious, if you don’t want to talk about it… I get it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Castiel said, reaching up to touch his lip, frowning for a moment before pulling away again.  It wasn’t physical.  He hadn’t ever been beaten.  This was just a method because his head was a hard place to be.

“Your brother’s a real charmer, isn’t he?” Crowley muttered, taking a drag and watching Meg as she moved back toward him.  She dropped to her knees to examine the welts on Crowley’s thighs, and he pushed his hand through her hair.  The power dynamic between them was… complex.  Crowley let her maneuver him whichever way she liked, lowering her face to nose at his inner thigh.  He thought he heard her murmur _‘good boy’_ against the skin.  Crowley’s eyes went soft and dark, grinning down at her.  “Abuse isn’t always hitting, love, and hitting isn’t always abuse.  Obviously.”  Crowley gestured to himself, to Meg on the ground in front of him, tending to his wounds.  “It’s all about intent.”

Castiel pushed himself up off the mattress and smoothed down his slacks, ignoring the way both of them were looking at him like he was an injured animal.  “You need me to get you names,” Castiel said, slightly clipped. 

“I need you to get me whatever you can get your hands on,” Crowley replied, exasperated and balancing his cigarette at the edge of his mouth.  Castiel nodded and walked toward the door, short, careful movements.  “And be careful, will you?”

“Yeah,” he said, opening the door to a dry, harsh chill.

\--

Sam flipped open his phone, thumb hovering above the call button.  He sighed, placed his free hand over the inside of his elbow.  He’d tried to stop agitating it, but the skin was still sore.  The pain helped, just like the sugar helped.  It made him focus on something other than the dull thrum under his skin.

Instead of making the call, he chose to open his text inbox, scrolling through and finding Jess’ name over and over again.  It made his chest tighten, and he felt the bite of pain as his nails dug against his skin.

Damn it.  He’d put this off far too long, anyway. 

Before he knew it he had the cell pressed up against the shell of his ear.  It rang, once.  Twice.  For a moment he thought she might not pick up, but then he heard a click, a small intake of breath.  “ _Sam_ ,” she breathed.

 Something in Sam cracked.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice wavering, tears burning behind his eyes.

“ _It’s been a week!  Where have you been?  What’s going on?  Did you get any of my messages?_ ”  Her voice grew more frantic as she continued on, and for a moment all Sam could do was listen to the sound of her voice, mouth half open.  “ _Sam, are you okay?_ ”

“Not really,” he said.  “Something happened.”

He told her about the hands pushing him toward the wooded area behind the school, about waking up and feeling… right.  And wrong.  He told her about finding Cas and going to Missouri and not being able to fill in some of the gaps because of that feeling, that euphoria. 

He tried to be clinical about it, tried not to get caught up in how awful he felt now that the drug was out of his system.  The way it had thrown him back into nightmares, sweating and clammy despite the chill that pressed against his bedroom window.  He pulled his comforter around his shoulders, tucked his knees against his chest.  Jess was quiet the entire time, taking it all in, and when Sam finished his story they both sat there just listening to each other breathe across the line.

“ _Shit_ ,” she said, finally.  Sam couldn’t help choking out a weak laugh.

“I should have answered your messages it’s just…”

“ _Yeah, I know_ ,” she said, her tone resigned.  “ _Do you regret it_?”

“What?”

“ _You know,_ ” she said. 

“Kissing you?” he asked softly.  Sucking air in through his teeth, Sam tightened his fingers around his arm.  “No, God no… I just.  I’m angry that this happened.  I wanted to be… good for you.  For me.”  He’d been so afraid he was going to screw it up, and they did it for him.  Nothing about the situation was okay, and his anger buried itself in the pit of his stomach.

“ _Yeah_ ,” she said.  There was another long pause.  Sam hyper focused on the little sounds coming through the receiver, heart thumping in his chest every time it seemed like she might start talking again.  “ _What do we do_?” she finally asked, her voice small.

“There’s still a ‘we’?” he asked back, almost too quickly, feeling a different kind of tug at his heart.

“ _Of course_ ,” she said.  Sam wished it didn’t hurt quite so much to smile, the edges of his mouth shaking.

“Thank God,” he said, his voice breaking.  He reached up to wipe at his watery eyes, not knowing whether he wanted to laugh or to cry, and worried he might do both.  “I dunno, but we’ll be okay.”  If he said it enough, maybe that would help to make it true.

“ _Yeah,_ ” she said with a small laugh.  “ _What about Cas, though?  Did you tell Dean he was there, that he helped you?_ ”

“He asked me not to.  I don’t know what’s going on with that, actually.  He said… he said this was _his_ fault.  I don’t know what that means, but he… I was out of it, but he seemed scared.”  Sam reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, sighing against his palm.  “Maybe I should be angry, maybe I am angry, but I’m worried about him.”

“ _You need to try and talk to him_ ,” she said, her voice less tentative than it had been.  “ _Seriously._ ”

“Yeah I know,” Sam sighed, leaning back against his headboard.  He stared up at the ceiling.   There was another silence, less pointed this time.  Less tense.  Eventually he let himself relax, realizing Jess wasn’t going anywhere.  Not now, anyway.  He grinned, ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his bangs from in front of his eyes.

“Dean said he was gunna go clean with me.  He’s gunna try to stop drinking so much,” he told her.

“ _That’s awesome!_ ” Jess said, the first time she’d sounded genuinely happy since this conversation started.

“Yeah, yeah it is,” Sam said back, smiling wide, his tongue between his teeth.  

It was something good, at least.  One good thing.  Sam was realizing that sometimes that’s all you need.

\--

The room stank like unlit cigars and cheap cologne.  Castiel moved through it, slowly, eyes roving every surface, every knot in the polished wood floor, every tassel hanging off the ends of curtains, rugs and lampshades.  He hardly even lifted his feet, feeling out the way so nothing would get dislodged, or disturbed.  This was, of all places, the last place he should be.  His brother didn’t even keep the door locked, the fear of retribution enough of a deterrent. 

At least, it had been.

He wasn’t sure how long he had, hours, or minutes, or even seconds.  His brother kept a varying schedule, and didn’t feel it necessary to let any of them know what that would be.  He was just here when he was here, and gone when he was gone.  Castiel just had to pray that he would have enough time.

The large oak desk seemed the most obvious place to start.  It was nearly bare, but that was normal for Raphael.  He liked order.  Castiel understood the appeal in that, to an extent.  He eyed a small, neat stack of unopened house and utility bills laid at the corner under a stone angel paperweight.  It was the only thing on the desk aside from a lamp and an ornate pencil organizer, and a clutch of shining silver pens with ‘R.N.’ engraved into the base.

Castiel moved to pull open the first small drawer, top dead center right behind where his leather desk chair sat.  It was full of mostly office supplies: stamps, packages of pens, untouched notebooks, small boxes of staples.  He rifled through it briefly before deciding the contents were benign, placing everything back exactly the way he’d found it before closing the drawer and moving on. 

The next drawer he opened contained nothing but a solid metal case, two latches at the front that Castiel thumbed open carefully, frowning at the residue left behind by the oils on his fingers.  Lifting the lid of the box up, he found a loaded black handgun with a beautiful dark wooden grip, the barrel a little longer than the length of his hand.  There were two extra loaded clips that sat neatly parallel to one another at the base.  It all looked conspicuously untouched.  Sighing, Castiel closed the box, checking to make sure it was the only thing in there before wiping his fingerprints away with the sleeve of his shirt and closing the drawer. 

He crouched down so he was level with the third drawer.  It was twice as deep as the previous two, and heavy enough that he had to shift his weight and tug to get it open.  Once he did, he found a filing system, marked with handwritten tabs; account information, bill information, paperwork for electronics, warranty information.  There was also a personal folder with birth certificates and medical information on all of them, even Gabriel and Anna, though at this point keeping those things was unnecessary. 

Shoved between his and Gabriel’s birth certificates was a small crumpled doctor’s note, ‘Anna M Novak’ and ‘deceased’ typed out in splotchy black ink.  Attached was a receipt for the coffin she’d been buried in.

Something ugly and vile buried itself in the pit of his stomach.  Castiel reached up to tug at the hair behind his ear, twisting it between two shaking fingers.  He tried to ignore the very physical weight on his chest, the need to vomit.  He hummed softly to himself as he continued to rifle through the paperwork, letting the sound steady him as he looked for anything and everything that might have to do with his brother’s business ventures.

Most of it was personal, nothing incriminating, or out of the ordinary, or useful in the way that Crowley needed it to be useful.  He’d almost given up looking through it when he found a small clutch of bank statements belonging to an account that was based overseas.  The amount of money moving in and out of the account was… ludicrous.  He stared at the numbers, all five to seven figures over the span of a few weeks, some being spent in huge quantities to companies like Rolex, or Buick, or De Beers. 

Castiel carefully extricated the papers and rolled them into a tight bundle, sticking them into the inside pocket of his jacket.  Then he moved on, thumbing through the rest of the papers efficiently, finding nothing of note.  He rolled the drawer closed, the latch clicking softly, before he moved to the final drawer.  This one had a lock, but when he tugged on it, it came open without much effort.

The first thing he noticed was that it wasn’t as deep as it should be.  There was a single worn, manila envelope placed in the center of the drawer.  Castiel reached out and took it.  When he saw what was inside, Castiel took an audible breath, rolling back on his heels until he was fully sitting on the floor, his knees pulled up against his chest. 

“What,” he breathed.  The sound of his own voice startled him.

There were photos, tons of them, all of them taken in this house.  The photos were of them growing together, still knobby-kneed or soft with baby fat.  There were photos of him from before he could remember, from when Raphael and Uriel had first come to live with them, their mother and his father arm in arm watching Uriel and Castiel play with little colored blocks at the foot of a familiar couch.  Anna was tucked up against their father’s feet reading a worn, old picture book.

For the first time Castiel felt something other than emptiness and grief at memories of his sister.  It was happiness, too, just tucked away in the center of his chest alongside this intense longing that made pressure build behind his eyes. 

He didn’t understand why his brother kept these here, tucking them away like something he wanted to protect.  He couldn’t reconcile a version of his brother that cared this much, a version of him that wanted to remember.  Castiel tried to swallow down against the weight in his chest, but it stuck there, and he found himself searching for something to keep him calm as he continued to flip through the photos. 

“ _I wandered empty streets down, Past the shop displays, I heard cathedral bells, Dripping down the alleyways, As I walked on…_ “

There were photos of Gabriel, a dangerous grin on his face, arms generally laced together behind his neck, scrapes littering his elbows and knees.  He was thin, and small in most of the images, but he had that mischievous, knowing glint in his eyes that Castiel associated with an older version of his brother.   Castiel felt himself smiling even as he sang under his breath, finding things he’d probably forgotten.  Things he wished he hadn’t forgotten. 

Zachariah always looked sallow and frustrated in photos.  He didn’t play well with any of them, even when Castiel, or Uriel, or Anna had tugged as his sleeves to join them.  Castiel felt something like pity for his brother, even after everything he’d said and done.  It was hard feeling alone.  It was hard for anyone.

He was almost completely through the photos when there was finally one of Raphael himself, young and gangly with big hands.  His dark, round eyes were serious, but there was a smile on his face as he looked down at the chubby little kid propped up on his lap.  Castiel realized the child was himself.  He was smiling up at his brother, his tiny little hands in fists at the collar of his brother’s white button-up shirt. 

He didn’t remember this.  Well, of course he didn’t, he was hardly over three in this photo.  But he couldn’t remember a time like this, where Raphael was just his big brother, and he could be… open around him.  It made him feel cheated.

“ _And when I awoke, and felt you warm and near, I kissed your honey hair…_ ” 

The last photo was of Anna, maybe six or seven years old, mouth pulled into a huge smile, short, cropped red hair falling and framing her round face.  Castiel smiled back at her, touching his fingers reverently across the glossed photo, tracing the shape of her jaw, her shoulders. 

“ _With my grateful tears, oh, I love you girl, oh, I love you._ ”

He sat there staring at the photos, and rather belatedly he realized that Raphel must have taken them himself.  Most of them, anyway.  There was only one of Raphael in what were probably around a hundred old snapshots, and Castiel didn’t really know how to process that.  He wanted to take the photo of Anna, but he left it there.  He thought it might be important. 

Closing the folder, he eyed the base of the drawer, one of the corners lifted up almost imperceptibly.  Castiel set the folder on the floor and reached out, prying the board away with steady fingers.  Peering inside, Castiel found a generous collection of worn notebooks.  He grabbed the first one he saw and opened it, and there were names.  Tons of names next to numbers, some that looked like dollar amounts and others that might have been addresses.  Many of them he couldn’t decipher at all.  There were little marks on the pages that obviously meant something, stars or circles drawn into the margins, and certain names kept cropping up over and over again.

He found much of the same in all of the books, little notes he didn’t understand because he didn’t know the lingo, didn’t have the right context.  Then he saw a name he recognized; ‘Seamus Crowley’ was bolded and underlined in a list of other names, some that had been scratched out in pen, some so blacked out he couldn’t pick out letters anymore.  There was an envelope tucked in the back as well, postmarked for a few weeks ago.  He pulled it out and peeled back the flap, taking out a handful of documents, dates and times and a personal note tucked in between handwritten invoices.

“Shit,” he said.  This was it.

\--

Dean shouldn’t have let Sam stay home from school for so long, but he was messed up.  Well, he was coping, but the added stress of schoolwork couldn’t do him many favors.  He kind of just wanted to mull about in his room, attempt to sleep despite the nightmares that had come back with a vengeance.  Dean just tried to be there for him, tried to do whatever he could.  Even if it wasn’t a lot.

There was still a bottle of whiskey stashed in the glove compartment; one Dean hadn’t had the strength to throw out yet, though he hadn’t touched it either.  He’d bought the damn thing the night after he’d seen Cas, thrown down a good quarter of it in the dim parking lot of a closed sandwich shop.  He was still surprised he’d made it home at all, that night.

Dean eyed the glove compartment now, Sam fidgeting in his seat across from it, visibly trying not to dig his fingernails in against his palm.

“We can go back home,” he said tentatively, and Sam frowned at him.  Dean shrugged and smirked, head lolling back to sit against the leather headrest.

“I need to talk to Missouri, I told her I’d be back today,” he told him, reaching down to wrap his hands around the strap of his backpack, tugging at it halfheartedly.  “Besides, you said I can’t keep avoiding life, right?”

“Yeah, I mighta said somethin’ like that,” Dean grinned.  Sam pulled his backpack up onto his lap as he opened the door, a harsh, frozen chill punching its way into the car.  Dean pulled his leather jacket tighter around him.  “Get out, man, before I freeze my balls off.”  Sam laughed and stepped a foot out of the car.

“Hey, Dean,” he said, turning to look at his brother over his shoulder.  “I’m proud of you.”  Dean felt a lump forming in his throat at the words, the edges of his lips twitching as he tried to bite it down.  He nodded, curtly, and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah man.  No chick flick moments, alright?”  Sam smiled and pushed himself out of the car, shutting the door and heading into the school.  Dean watched until his brother disappeared into the building and then leaned over, opening up the glove compartment and pulling out the bottle.  He set it on the passenger seat beside him before he shifted the Impala out of park, heading around to the back of the school where there was a gigantic dumpster.

“You and me,” he said, a grin on his lips, “We have a date.” 

Dean took a ridiculous amount of pleasure from chucking the bottle against the thick metal, hearing the glass shatter and echo in the hollow pit of the thing, a faint wet noise as the drink splattered against the inner walls.  He smiled and pushed his already freezing hands through his hair, turning back toward his car.

He drove back around to the front of the school, putting his baby in park and throwing his feet up on the dash.  Johnny Cash played on the radio, and Dean reached forward to up the volume, losing himself in the deep southern lilt of his voice.  He had time to burn before the bell rang, and he’d spend it here.

“ _You’ve got a way to keep me on your side, you give me cause for love that I can’t hide, for you I know I’d even try to turn the tide, because you’re mine, I walk the line…_ ”

Dean belted out the lyrics, his voice off tune but passionate.  He felt better than he had in weeks.  The time slipped away from him until eventually the sun began to rise, painting everything in a dim blue light.  Other cars started to pull into the school, kids climbing out wrapped up in layers of jackets and scarves, some in ugly sweaters with reindeer or holly leaves knit into the fabric. 

He should have been startled when he saw Cas climbing out of his car, both brothers in tow.  He wasn’t though, he just watched him, no longer singing along with the lyrics.  Cas looked exhausted, more so than usual.  His clothes were a little wrinkled, his jacket too small for the layers of sweaters he had on underneath it.  He felt longing tug at him, but he tried to let it go.  Cas turned, his brothers passing by him without pause.  Then he saw Dean, his tired blue eyes going wide, long fingers clutched into fists at his sides.

Dean just smiled at him, a soft one.  Cas tipped his head to the side, staring him down for a moment before he, tentatively, returned it.  It was probably the saddest goddamn smile he’d ever seen, and if he had the right he would have jumped out of the car and gone to him.  He wanted to wrap his arms around Cas’ waist, let Cas warm his nose against his neck.

You can’t always have everything you want.

The radio switched over to the Rolling Stones, and Dean sighed, turning the volume dial down. 

Cas turned away and walked quickly into the school, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket against the cold.  Dean raised up a hand, gave him a little wave as he disappeared into a thick crowd of students, and closed his eyes.  He took just a few more minutes of this, of calm and music and the familiar smell of his car, leather and exhaust.  He tried to keep himself together, and for once he thought it might be working.

Still, that longing never really went away.

\--

Jess nearly knocked him over, wrapping her arms tight around his waist.  She buried her face against his chest.  Sam wound his hands gently into her hair, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “I’m sorry,” against her skin.

They walked arm in arm after that, Sam feeling stronger with her at his side.  The conversation with Missouri had been mostly a rehash of the past week, but at the end of it Missouri had wrapped him up in a tight hug.  She told him everything would be okay in the end, and Sam had smiled because out of everyone, he had to believe her.  Missouri understood things the way other people couldn’t, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to thank her enough for everything she’d done for him, calling Dean that day instead of the authorities.  She’d given him a chance and he wasn’t going to waste it.

When they reached Jess’ homeroom, Sam pulled her into another hug, and he could feel her smiling against him.

“I need to take care of something before homeroom,” he told her, pulling away and reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.  She looked up at him, eyes flickering across his face like she was drinking him in.  He smiled when she caught his hand with her own.

“Is it Cas?” she asked him quietly, running her thumb across his palm, a soft jolt of pleasure making its way up his arm.

“Yeah, I need to talk to him,” he responded.  She nodded and he leaned down to kiss her, still a bit hesitant because they hadn’t been doing this long.  She eased his worry by closing the space herself, the taste of her filling him up.  He grinned against her lips before he pulled away again.  “I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Yeah, okay. Good luck!” She waved and turned into her classroom, Sam turning in the opposite direction to attempt and find Cas. 

It was more difficult than he expected it to be.  Cas apparently changed his routes after the fallout with Dean, he wasn’t in any of the usual spots.  Sam almost gave up finding him before the bell when he remembered his locker number, turning and winding his way back in the opposite direction.  When he saw Cas thumbing at the padlock in front of his locker, Sam let out a slow breath, trying to keep himself from freaking out.  There was so much he needed to know, but first he needed to get Cas to stay.

He walked up to him, Cas oblivious as he turned the dial, a faint clicking noise.  His eyes were dark and bruised, and Sam felt a well of sympathy for his friend.  He spoke softly.

“Cas?” he said, Cas turning to look at him, eyes gone wide.

“Sam,” he said, looking around the hall frantically before meeting his eyes again.  “Are you alright?”

“Getting there,” Sam said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.  He took a deep breath, and Cas backed away from him a pace, staring down the hall again.  “Man, we have to talk.”

“I can’t,” Cas said wearily.

“This isn’t negotiable.  You said some shit to me last week, and I deserve to know what the hell you were talking about.”  Sam tried to stay calm, but he felt impatient, the words coming out with difficulty.  “Especially after what happened.”  He’d been fucking attacked.  They had tried to ruin everything.  That knowledge was hard to reconcile, even if he was concerned for his friend.  Even if Cas had been the one to help him.

He reached down and closed his hand over the inside of his elbow, not sure if he was imagining the heavy thrum of his pulse through the thick fabric of his hoodie. 

“Sam, you don’t understand.  You can’t speak to me here, we can’t be seen together.  You have to go… _now_.” Cas’ voice kept getting lower, more frantic.  “Please.”

“Is this about your brothers?  Do they have something to do with what happened to me?” Sam asked, watching the way Cas pulled his face, trying to back up.  He looked angry and impatient, his hands gripping at the ends of his coat.  Sam sighed.  “Listen, please, I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be, I’m fine.  Worry about yourself,” he said quietly.  “Look, I can’t talk here.  We’ll… figure something out, but for now you have to go.  Alright?”  Cas was trying very hard, it seemed, not to just cut and run.  Sam wasn’t sure if the dismissal hurt him or made him angry.  It was a little of both.  Seeing the fear in Cas’ tired eyes, though, he backed up.  Cas exhaled slowly. 

“Sam, I’m sorry,” he said, and Sam frowned, nodding.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I know.” Sam answered, turning to leave. 

The anticipation and impatience needled at him, hoping Cas would keep his word.  He tried to calm himself, tried not to let his anger get the better of him.  He had other things to hold on to; he had other work to bury himself in.  He had distractions, but there was always the threat of everything unraveling, and if he didn’t know what was happening, he couldn’t feel safe. 

That night he sat at home, thumbing through old text messages.  He wondered how Cas would contact him, if he would call or show up in the middle of the night like he used to do with Dean.  By the time he was ready to sleep, he’d had no word.  He wished he could talk to Dean, he knew he should, but Dean was getting better and Sam was afraid to pick a fresh wound, especially when he didn’t have any answers himself. 

So Sam waited, half a dozen messages typed out and ready to send to Cas if he actually thought it might do any good. 

He didn’t.

He’d almost completely given up hope until a few days later.  Sam opened his locker to find a neatly folded sheet of yellow paper, a short clutch of words scrawled out, Cas’ name signed at the bottom.

_Sam._

_Meet me at the alley behind The Roadhouse.  
Sunday night, 11PM.  Important.  We need to talk._

_Castiel_


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is an important chapter to let everyone know this story has a happy ending.
> 
> Warnings for violence and mental illness.

Castiel took a deep breath, the air dense with the looming threat of rain, or snow.  Despite it being the dead of winter, it didn’t seem cold enough for the latter.  Not yet, anyway.

He blinked back against the tired burn behind his eyes, shook out his shoulders as he pressed forward.

 When he showed up on Meg’s doorstep, Crowley answered.  He was actually dressed, looking more like he had the first couple of times they’d met.  He wore pleated slacks and a starched button down shirt that was half un-tucked, sleeves rucked up over his elbows.  He had a red tie draped over his shoulders, and his black suspenders hung down, useless, toward his feet.

The shorter man smiled at him when he handed Crowley the pile of notebooks, a battered, open envelope spilling out handwritten notes and invoices.  He shifted, from casual to business, straightening up and immediately beginning to rifle through the contents.

Castiel just had to wait.

Crowley paced the room, flipping through the notebooks, then moving to open the envelope.  He took his time reading through its contents, the crease between his brows going deeper as he went.  It was silent.  Castiel felt himself bleeding into the backdrop, fixing his stare on a small spot on the opposite wall.

He shouldn’t be chasing this void.

Castiel heard a curse, spat out beneath Crowley’s breath, whiskey rough with that heavy Scottish accent.  It brought him back.  He looked up at Crowley, and Crowley couldn’t quite meet his eyes, seeming a little dazed like he was thinking something over. 

“Do you know what any of it means?” Castiel finally asked, sitting forward in the armchair while Crowley paced across Meg’s living room.  Crowley knocked aside empty Chinese food containers and used paper plates with his feet as he went, grimacing down at the mess from time to time. 

“I recognize a lot of these names.  They’re all buyers, or sellers,” Crowley told him, standing still for a second and squinting at the page.  “God, I can’t believe Talbot had a secret habit all this time.  She’ll be an excellent asset.” He began to pace again, flipping through a few more pages. 

“These are all people I met while I was still selling for the bastard,” Crowley murmured, running a hand through his cropped hair, fidgeting in the absence of a cigarette.  “This list with my name, I’d bet my mother’s left tit that it’s a hit list.”  He said it with an easy grin, a roll of his eyes.  Castiel sat upright.

“You don’t think you should be worried?” he asked.  Crowley laughed, low in his throat, before he turned to pace in the other direction.

“It’s idiotic to not be cautious.  I’m not foolish enough to underestimate my opponents, _Castiel_.  However…” Crowley paused, thumbing through the pages,  “If the rest of this is any indication,” he raised the unsealed envelope in his left hand, twirling it with a light flourish, “Your brother’s got a bit more on his mind than a failed salesman.”

“I didn’t understand the contents,” Castiel said carefully, rubbing at his eyes, stinging with a dull fatigue, and then pulling back to watch as Crowley pulled out a clutch of papers, eying them with a slight, conspiratorial smirk.  “They seemed… important.”

Crowley barked out a laugh and unfolded the paper, his dark eyes scanning the words before moving to the next page, all toilet paper thin and dirty yellow.  “Important.  That’s a bloody understatement.  Have you ever heard of Spice, angel?  I imagine you’ve had a few brushes with this world despite your 'innocent’ posturing.” 

Castiel cocked his head to the side and Crowley rolled his eyes, shoving his free hand into his back pocket over a rectangular shaped lump that was probably a pack of crushed cigarettes.

“It’s a drug,” he deadpanned, like Castiel couldn’t have worked that much out on his own.  Castiel frowned at him and Crowley managed a cheeky grin, still reading through a messily handwritten note.  “One that could get your brother in a great fucking mess of trouble if found out.”

“Explain,” Castiel said, pushing himself to his feet so he was on level with Crowley.  Actually, he towered over Crowley a bit, but it was easier to look him in the eyes this way.  Easier to see the notes clutched in his fists, which suddenly filled him with a nervous, intense anticipation.

“It’s a synthetic, basically THC, but it throws the cops because drug runners keep changing the chemistry.  You’ve got kids overdosing on this shit and they can’t figure out what it is before it’s too late and they’ve already changed it again,” Crowley said, finally taking out a cigarette and biting the end between his teeth.  “Let’s just say, love, that if authorities got their mitts on this,” he shook the clutch of papers in his hand, “The entire district would be under scrutiny.  It’d very likely be the end of your brother.”

Castiel gaped at Crowley, reaching out to try and take the papers out of his hand, but Crowley pulled back.

“It’d also be the end his empire, which I’d very much like to keep  _intact_ ,” Crowley said with a slight growl, reaching into his front pocket to dig out a lighter.  “No police.”

Castiel felt himself baring his teeth, moving forward until he was firmly into Crowley’s personal space.  The shorter man didn’t as much as flinch, blowing a puff of rancid cigarette smoke back into his face.  Castiel wrinkled his nose.  “How long, exactly, will your way take?” Castiel asked, keeping his voice low.  “And why should I care?”

“You came to  _me_ for help, or did you forget?”  Crowley backed up a step, laughing derisively and rolling his eyes. 

Castiel thought of Sam, and he knew time was something he was eventually going to run out of.  It wasn’t even a matter of ‘if’s’ anymore.  Someone had gone after Sam, they could go after him again, and the only way to stop them, the only way to be absolutely sure they were safe, was to tear it all down.

He had to  _do something_.

“You’re telling me that we have the means to take him down, and that I’m not allowed to use it?” Castiel snarled the last words as he reached forward to wrap his fingers up in the collar of Crowley’s shirt, tugging hard.  “Do you have idea who you’re dealing with?  I still have pull, or did you forget?”  He moved forward until their bodies were nearly pressed together, till he could hear that small intake of breath.  “I could tear you down just as easily.”

“Without me, you wouldn’t have any idea what this is.” Crowley smacked him in the chest with the envelope and papers, still clutched in his hand.  “This is powerful leverage.  I’m not giving it and everything I’ve worked for up just because you asked.”

There was the slam of the front door, the soft patter if heels being kicked to the wood floor, but Castiel ignored it to continue glaring down at Crowley.  His hand tightened on Crowley’s shirt collar. 

“I’m not asking,” Castiel near whispered, and he could have sworn there was a blush creeping up Crowley’s pale cheeks.  It could just be from lack of oxygen, though.  Castiel let go, just the smallest amount, and Crowley laughed.

“God, but you are  _sexy_  when you’re angry,” he said, voice gravelly and playful.  Castiel finally shoved him away and backed up, running a hand through his hair.

“If I can’t keep the Winchesters safe, there’s nothing in it for me,” he said, angry with how defeated he sounded.  He was coming apart at the seams.  His exhaustion rolled over him in a wave, like it needed to remind him of its presence.  Castiel wasn’t sure he’d slept for more than three hours together for the past two weeks. 

“Listen to me, your brother is going down.  You just have to trust me, and give me the time I need.”  Crowley sounded gruff, but like he was reining in his frustration as well. 

Crowley was coddling him.  Great.

“Look, give me half a week and I’ll… come up with something.  A plan of action.”  Castiel reached up and rubbed at his eyes, and he heard Crowley sigh. 

“Half a week?” Castiel muttered, hating himself.

“I always keep my promises.”

Castiel stood in the middle of the living room, frustration clawing at him.  He closed his eyes for a moment, the world falling away before he shook himself out of it and turned toward the door.  Not the front door that led to the stairwell back onto the main street, but one at the opposite end of the room, a thin exit onto a small, covered balcony.  He had tunnel vision, brushing past furniture, past the small, dirty kitchen, only noticing Meg when he bumped shoulders with her.  He kept moving, flinging the door open and walking out onto the porch, a floor up from the dark street.

He tugged his jacket off and let it fall to the floor, his button-up following it, leaving him with only his undershirt as a barrier against the cold.  The flushed skin of his arms rippled with goose bumps, a shiver wracking through his body.  It felt real, in a way things weren’t feeling real anymore.  He stood there, still and silent, glaring forward at the plain concrete wall of the adjacent building that impeded most of the view from the tiny balcony.

Time passed.  His limbs went tingly, then numb.

“Take it,” he heard Meg’s voice, a soft command and far closer than he was immediately comfortable with.  Castiel looked over at her, and she was handing him a beer, already uncapped.   “It’ll loosen you up,” she explained.  Castiel sighed, ignoring his apprehension as he took it from her, throwing back a long swig as quickly as he could.  He nearly choked. 

That flavor, virulent, bitter and heady, it was like Dean.

Or maybe Dean had just always tasted like the drink. 

Castiel bit the inside of his lip.  _Damn it._   He wasn’t even sure what Dean tasted like without it.  Castiel hated that, hated it like something precious had been stolen from him.  But it was truth, Dean had always been… nursing that habit.  It had let up when things started to get good, or at least on the fringes of good.  As good as two fucked up teenagers can really get, still warm and so close to what they both needed.  He remembered, too, sometimes the taste had been the sharp, thick bite of whisky rather than the bitter tang of beer, but it all stung. 

It was just another wall between them.

 “Tasted better off of Dean’s tongue,” he said, coughing and almost laughing at how blunt his own statement was.  Meg just arched an eyebrow at him and took a sip of her own drink.

“You’ve seriously never had beer before?” she asked, swallowing easily and crossing her arms in front of her chest.  “What kind of teenager are you?”

“An odd one, I’ve been told,” he said, only a little bitter.  “I don’t like things that… alter my mind.”  He threw back another gulp of the drink, trying to bypass his tongue completely.  He almost managed it, but it still burned going down. 

It all burned.

Meg and Castiel drank in companionable silence for a while, Meg only moving to grab them another round once the first ones were gone.  Halfway through his second bottle, Castiel felt warmth rising in his cheeks, a pressure behind his eyes.  The rest of his body convulsed occasionally with the cold.  He was feeling that less and less, too, as time went on.  Everything seemed further away, in a different manner than when he was sober.

Wait, was he drunk?

“You wanna put on a jacket?  Not that I don’t appreciate the show of manly resilience you have going here,” Meg quipped, gesturing at him with an open palm.

“I’m fine.”

A shiver ran through his body.  He relished it.

“What changed your mind?” Meg asked him, and Castiel blinked slowly.  “To come back here.  Work with Crowley.”

Castiel laughed, without an ounce of humor.

“I felt it was… was my only option,” he said, choosing his words carefully and working very hard not to slur.  His mouth felt tacky, his thoughts slow.  “My whole life I’ve just been… losing everything.  My father, my brother, my sister,” he took a deep breath, and a small sip of beer for good measure, “My sanity.”

He did not like the way that sounded out loud.

Meg didn’t say anything at all, didn’t try to comfort him, lay a hand on his shoulder and pretend to understand when she couldn’t.  He appreciated that.  She wasn’t judging him, she didn’t care.  He kind of needed that. 

He kind of needed _this_.

“I had resigned myself, until I met them.  Sam and Dean.  And I fell in love.”  He said it easily, like it had always been that way, like he’d never struggled to name it in the first place.  It was just truth.  He’d fallen so fast.  “Not just in love with Dean, but with both of them.  Together.  That house, their couch, Dean’s bed.  The way it smelled, all that warmth…”

“Deep,” Meg quipped, quietly though, forcing the sarcasm.  Castiel moved to finish off the rest of his drink before tossing it off the balcony, watching as it shattered against the concrete wall of the building across from them, pieces of wet, brown glass raining down on the street below.  He was mildly surprised he still had the energy in his limbs to throw. 

Meg didn’t react other than to exhale, small and quick.

“I’ve lost a lot, but it was never… I never had control over any of it.  Until now.  Raphael,” Castiel licked his lips, his brother’s name tasting worse on his tongue than the bitter hops.  “He gave me an… ultimatum: their  _lives_  or my obedience.  And I...”  He laughed again, unable to stop himself.  “I fucking folded.  I broke apart what I had.  The way Dean looked at me… I just… I had to protect them, right?”  He looked at Meg for a moment, hoping, _praying_ for an answer, but she just cocked an eyebrow at him.  He stared down at his hands, then.  They were red and raw from the cold.  “It still doesn’t stop.  It never stops.”  He tried to stop the burning in his eyes, to go somewhere else, shut it all down, but the alcohol made it hard.

“Your brother’s the kind of guy who doesn’t kill with his own hands,” she said, softly.  Logically.  Castiel frowned, keeping his eyes on his hands.  “He’s too careful.  You take away his power and you can get away.  Isn’t that the goal here?”

“It isn’t  _enough_ ,” Castiel snapped. 

He had to take action; he was tired of sitting around and waiting.  He was tired of folding up and letting everything just happen to him, to the people he  _loved_.

Meg just nodded slowly, finishing her own drink and tossing it off the balcony to join Castiel’s.  She leaned up against the railing and stared around the concrete wall, out onto the dark, empty street.

“If you did get away, you think he’d take you back?” she asked quietly, and something fouler bubbled up in Castiel’s stomach. A million different scenarios flashed in his head, warm smiles and gentle hands around his wrists, soft lips pressed again his neck.  He thought of Dean laughing and pressing against him as they watched a movie, fingertips tracing the veins in his hands, moving to lace them together.  He imagined the way he’d smile back at Dean, lean over, kiss him without _fear_.  He imagined forgiveness, something he desperately wished he didn’t need.

Something he’d never have.

“No.”                                                     

“His loss,” she murmured.  Then she reached out, set a hand against his shoulder blade, putting pressure on his numbing skin.  He didn’t mean to lean into it, but he did.  She didn’t pull away.

Castiel left not long after, Crowley off somewhere; probably back at his own hardly used apartment.  He only realized once he was already in his bed that he didn’t really remember the walk home.  He ignored it, sighed and closed his eyes, trying to figure out what to do.  What action should he take now?

He spent the night in fevered half-sleep, dreaming of laughing voices, the touch of skin, soft guitar riffs leaking out of worn speakers.  He woke up, over and over with a dull, expanding emptiness when these things fell away again.

Castiel walked into the school the next morning with a note between his fingers, heading straight for Sam’s locker. 

He had a promise to keep, and there had to be such a thing as second chances.

\--

Sam fidgeted with note in his palm, his other hand linked with Jess’ as they sat side by side on his couch.  She squeezed it gently, leaning over to nudge at Sam.  Sam pressed back, tipping his head until it rested on her shoulder.  He kept picking at the paper, even as she pressed a soft kiss into his hair.

“Sam, are you…” Jess started, but Dean turned into the living room, covered in engine grease from working at Bobby’s garage all day, skin flushed from the cold and exertion.  He looked over at the two of them on the couch and grinned, his eyes scanning them till they landed on Sam’s hand.  Sam closed it over the note protectively, which was a bad move.

“What’s that?” Dean asked, unbuttoning his jacket and tossing it to the floor beneath the coffee table.  Sam took a small breath, turning to nose at Jess’ neck before sitting straight up again. 

“It’s nothin’, just a homework assignment,” Sam lied, shoving it in his pocket before Dean could get closer.  Dean seemed to take it at face value, though, shrugging and turning into the kitchen.  Sam watched him through the open entryway, watched him walk to the fridge, open it, and stare for a while before closing it again.  His expression went frustrated, but he pulled his hand down over his face and shook it out through his shoulders.

Sam understood it immediately.  The subtle craving of a habit. 

He reached over to try and scratch at his arm, but thought better of it, turning his head to neck at Jess playfully.  She shivered, and that sent pleasure ratcheting through him.  This was better, he reminded himself as he breathed her in.  He didn’t want to be somewhere else for this.  He felt her fingers tighten again, and he knew immediately she understood, too.

Once Dean had his food, he retreated to his bedroom with his school bag slung over his shoulder.  Midterms were next week, and Dean was busying himself with studying, when he wasn’t scrubbing down the house or fixing cars at Bobby’s.  The last time he’d seen Dean study, Sam had still been in elementary school.

“So,” Jess breathed, Sam pressing soft kisses against her neck and cheek now that they were alone.  “You’re seeing Cas tonight?”  Sam sighed and straightened up, reaching out to run a hand through her hair.

“Yeah.  I don’t want to talk about it right now, though.”  She gave him a wounded look, and he pressed his palm against her cheek to sooth it.

“Didn’t realize it was a touchy subject,” she murmured, leaning into the touch all the same.

“It’s not,” Sam said, placing a kiss to her cheek.  “It’s just we always talk about me, have you noticed?”

“You’re the one with stuff going on,” Jess shrugged.

“You’ve got stuff!  I wanna hear about your stuff,” Sam laughed.  She rolled her eyes back at him.  Then, Sam went serious, leaning in and kissing her again, soft and slow, coaxing the tension from her shoulders.  He pulled back, just a fraction, his face heated, hand laced into her hair, at the base of her neck.  “This has been an unbelievably one sided relationship so far.  I want to do this right.”  Jess sighed, nodding her agreement.  Sam could feel her shudder as he pressed his lips to her neck.

“I haven’t told you, not nearly enough.  I’m crazy about you.” He kissed the lobe of her ear, and she pulled their entwined hands up against her chest, right below her chin.  Her thumb grazed his knuckles.  “I want to hear all of your ‘stuff’, I want you to complain at me about your classes, I want you to tell me when you’re excited over a new movie, I want you to tell me every trivial little thing.  I want to hear it all,” Sam breathed, and Jess laughed.  A nervous, happy sound.

“I’d love to see you play again,” he said, wrapping his free arm around her waist, settling his hand at the base of her spine.  His face was still buried in the crook of her neck. “Your mom told me you were made for it, you know?  She was right.  If you love it…”

“Sam…” Jess warned, softly.

“Sorry, I just… you light up.  I want to see you like that, every day if I can.  You’ve been so good for me, Jess, I just want to be good for you back.”

Sam felt her press a kiss into his hair, laughter shaking them both.  “So serious,” she chided playfully.

“Shut up,” he murmured, grinning ear to ear.  “I should have asked you before…” Sam took a deep breath and pulled back, wanting to look her in the eyes for this.  When he could see her face in full she looked flushed, ecstatic, a little shy as she met his eyes.  “Do you wanna be my girlfriend?” 

Oh god, it sounded so fucking cheesy when he said it out loud.  He tried not to think about how hard he was blushing.

Jess leaned into him, pressed a hard kiss to his lips, more heat than usual and he responded in kind, reaching up with both hands to cup her face. 

“Yeah,” she laughed against his lips, “Thought you’d never ask.”

\--

Sam and Jess kissed for a long time, pressed up against each other on the couch, eventually stopping to just lie face to face while Jess told Sam about her day.  Apparently Charlie had been trying to teach her how to play Dungeons and Dragons earlier, and so far Jess said she was pretty terrible at it.  She tended to overact the characters and forget to do much of anything else.  A constant performer, apparently.  Sam just smiled and listened until Dean interrupted them to take Jess home.

Sam walked her to her door, and before she turned away he kissed her, hard.  He put everything he had into it, muttering a quiet, “Thank you,” against her cheek before they parted.  She smiled and squeezed his hand, grounding him, calming him.  Always so easily.  He tried to hold onto that feeling once he was back in the car.  It didn’t last long enough.

Dean was quiet on the ride back, and so was Sam, the nervousness eating away at him as he edged closer and closer to his meeting with Cas.  He tried not to think about it too much, and that just made him think about it more.

Eventually, the time came, and Sam realized just how much he hated sneaking around Dean. 

The last time he’d done it was back before the fire, with Ruby, crawling out his bedroom window to meet her halfway between their houses.  It hadn’t always been to shoot up, either.  A lot of times they’d just liked being together.  They liked to kiss and touch, still clothed and curled up behind a nearby supermarket.  They’d meet up after Ruby had a fight with her father, or when John would run out again.  Sometimes it really was just about seeking comfort.

He hated doing it again, though, because he knew how it looked.  How it made him feel.  Even if he didn’t let that stop him in the end.

Sam palmed the note Cas had left for him in his locker, tucking it back away in his front pocket before reaching down to pick up his jacket.  Sam bypassed his bedroom window altogether and peeked out into the hallway.  It was empty and quiet, no light seeping up from under his brother’s door.  He made his way to the front door and pushed himself out into the cold, pulling his jacket tighter around his thin limbs.

Staring up, he wondered if it would snow soon.  The sky was a blanket of black and gray, light from scattered stars poking through only around the edges.  It would be near pitch black if it weren’t for a few porch lights and the tall lamp at the end of the road.

Shutting the front door might have been too loud, Sam realized belatedly, but he wasn’t interested in sticking around long enough to find out.  He walked quickly down the street, hands shoved in his pockets, a nervous prickle at the base of his neck.  It was colder than it had been, a physical pressure in the air, like static electricity.  Every passing car made Sam tense up, feeling simultaneously cornered and exposed, like a blemish on an otherwise pristine surface. 

He just kept moving.

The walk was long and tense until he turned onto that familiar alley, reaching out to run his numbing fingertips along the rough brick.  As he made his way to the opposite end of the narrow walk, Sam eyed a broken drain pipe sticking out off the side of the building, a two foot long piece of it, hollow and metal, laying a few feet away on the ground, half submerged in a shallow puddle of ice.  Instead of avoiding it, he veered his step toward it, nudging under it with the toe of his boot and kicking up, sending it rolling with a loud clatter further down the street.

“Sam?” The voice made him start, gripping his hands in tight fists and turning toward it, too quickly for the action to be passed off as anything but frantic.  Cas looked at him with a crease in his brow, his arms down at his sides.  He looked completely worn-out, his shoulders tight, his eyes tired, skin pallid except for the red flush in his fingertips and nose. 

“Jesus, man,” Sam breathed, relaxing and running a hand through his hair.  “Scared me.”

“You knew I’d be here,” Cas said, tipping his head to the side.  The gesture was so genuine, so very Cas, that Sam had to smile at him.

“Yeah, I’m a little wound up tonight,” Sam hedged, dropping his own arms again and moving forward.  “Is talking here safe?”  Sam watched as Cas’ gaze darted from side to side, a near identical replay of the last time they’d spoken in the halls of the school.  Cas was so tense he looked like he was going to snap.  Sam reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, and he relaxed a little under the weight of it.

“Safer than school,” he said quietly.  “Are you still doing alright?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, licking his lips.  “Better than I thought I’d be, anyway.  Jess… we’re finally _together_ together, I think.  We’re something, anyway.  She helps.”  Cas smiled softly at that, and nodded, his eyes going a bit clouded before he shook himself out of it.  “You called me here for a reason, Cas.”

“I did,” Cas said, reaching up to place a palm on the back of his neck.  The movement looked difficult.  “I put you in danger, and I’m sorry for that.  I should have never…” Cas took a breath, refused to meet his eyes, “I shouldn’t have gone home with you, I shouldn’t have let myself… I was weak.  And selfish.”

“We wanted you there,” Sam said, “We still do.” Cas actually rolled his eyes at that, mouth open in a painful laugh, finally dropping his arm back down by his side.  

“They found out a few weeks ago.  I should have been more careful.” Cas sighed and looked up at Sam, a hint of pleading in those tired eyes.  “My brother is dangerous, Sam, and he doesn’t forgive easily.”  Cas took a step back, and then forward again.  A nervous movement.  “They’re targeting you, I don’t know to what extent, but attacking you the way they did…” Castiel closed his eyes, so wearily it made Sam’s chest hurt.  “I am trying to fix it, Sam.  I just need you to know that.  But if you and your brother can get away –”

“No, Cas. Hell no.  We can help each other.  You don’t have to deal with them on your own,” Sam said, feeling ill at the prospect of leaving.  Even with all the bad memories, this was his home.  He’d never had a home.  He didn’t want to give it up, and he didn’t want to leave his friend to shoulder his mistakes on his own.

“I do,” Cas said, with sobering finality.

“Why did you ask me here?” Sam snapped, pushing forward into Cas’ space, dipping his head down and forcing his friend to look him in the eye.  They were bloodshot, glazed over, but  _hard_. “This is selfish, Cas.  This, right here.  Thinking you’re the only one of us who _gives a shit_.”  Cas stared at him, searched his features.  “This is selfish.”  Castiel opened his mouth to say something, but there was a loud clatter that made both of them jump, turning toward the sound.

Two figures made their way toward them, backlit by streetlights, breath visible against their lips.  Sam froze.

“Zachariah,” Cas breathed, stepping forward toward his brothers.  Uriel was poised behind Zachariah, his face blank except for the focused frustration in his dark eyes.   Sam widened the stance of his feet very slightly, wondering if he should run but not wanting to leave Cas alone with them.

“You don’t learn.” Zachariah said, his voice mocking and impatient, and angry, something he was visibly trying and failing to hold back.  Sam saw it in the set of his shoulders, the way he couldn’t keep an even footing.  Sam’s eyes trained down toward Zachariah’s hands, small and wrapped around that fucking metal pipe he’d kicked earlier. 

_Jesus Christ._

\--

Castiel’s heart pounded so fast and so hard he felt dizzy.  He moved forward, putting space between himself and Sam as he approached his brother.  Zachariah stared at Castiel, the hollow metal clenched tight in his fist, knuckles gone white. 

“Zachariah,” he repeated, soothingly, like he was speaking to a skittish animal.  “Please.”

“Please,  _what_?” Zachariah snapped, breath coming out in a sudden puff, straightening himself up and brushing his fingers across the collar of his jacket.  “I’ll never understand how you’ve always been the favorite.” He rolled his eyes, pinched his lips together, a forced picture of control even as he was unraveling at the seams.  “Everyone always loved you best.  Father did, Anna and Gabriel did.”

“That’s not true,” Castiel said, frowning and trying to hold himself steady.  Zachariah laughed at that, a cruel sound that bounced off the walls of the alley, surrounding him.

“Oh, you don’t think so?” he asked, looking down at the pipe with muted interest, like he was only just becoming aware of it.  “Even Raphael liked you best, even when I was the one who listened.  I was the one who did what I was _fucking_ told.” Zachariah’s fist tightened.  “I did everything, I was _exactly_ what I was supposed to be.” 

Zachariah took a step forward toward Sam who backed up, staring over Zachariah’s shoulder at Uriel who still, through all of this, hadn’t said or done a thing.  Castiel looked over at him, too, tried to meet his eyes, but Uriel just stared at Sam.  An all too familiar anger seemed to be pushing its way through the calm of his face, his massive hands clenching and unclenching anxiously.

“Then _he_ came along,” Zachariah said manically, and Castiel looked over at him in time to see him raising the pipe, pointing it straight at Sam.  “This fucking junkie, this insect, he took her away from us.”  Zachariah’s voice was fevered, cracking a bit around the edges.  Castiel couldn’t tell if it was anger, but it sounded a lot like grief, like  _genuine_  grief and that tore at him.  It echoed the way his own chest ached when he thought of red hair and soft melodies, of warm nights he’ll never get back.  “And you still care more about him than _us_ ; you put everything on the line.  You’ve made your choice, and I’m done.” 

Zachariah lowered his arm a fraction, stared at Sam, standing feet away and stock still.  Castiel moved closer to Sam, tried to place himself between them.  The movement made Zachariah twitch.  Castiel felt the cold rush of something that felt like wind through him, then, a painful bite that found its way beneath his clothes, beneath his skin. 

He breathed in the frigid air of the oncoming storm, burying his fear beneath it.

“You won’t hurt Sam.  I won’t let you,” Castiel said, slowly, watching as his brother’s body went taut.  Zachariah tipped his head to the side, as if in contemplation, never letting himself look away from Sam.

“I was useful.  I did well, working for Raphael, and you and him, you made me look… incapable.”  Zachariah sounded calmer than he had since he’d arrived, but it was a dangerous calm.  He reached up with a shaking hand to smooth down his jacket.  “I’m done with it; with you, and with him.”

“ _Sam_!” a voice punched through the tension, echoed loud and gruff along the walls, and Castiel saw, out of the corner of his eye, Sam whipping his head around toward it.

“Dean?”

It happened so fast, a kneejerk response, pure instinct.

Zachariah moved faster than Castiel could have anticipated, his arm raised and a feral look in his eyes.  A warning bled between Castiel’s lips, across his tongue, but it was all lost in the frantic thrum of his heart, in his ears, adrenaline pumping.  Castiel shot forward.  He reached out, toward Sam, to shove him out of the way.  

When his hands made contact, his own body was less a shield than a battering ram, bowling Sam over. 

Then there was pain. 

Pain that split white hot at the base of Castiel’s skull.

Pain that threw him forward, violently.

_Oh._

Sam dropped.

Castiel opened his mouth to speak –  _Sam_  – but it came out as a horrible, pained string of vowels, thick against his tongue, grating against his throat. 

His vision blanked.  

Castiel’s knees threatened to buckle, and he stumbled, reaching out blindly.  He took one step, then another, an aimless, painful struggle to keep moving forward because he was so terrified of collapsing.  There was no noise, like the space surrounding him stretched out endlessly in all directions and reverberated, curving back in to smother him completely. 

“Cas?” That voice,  _his_  voice, it was small, dissipated, fell away.

There was nothing else.  Just Castiel, and he was alone. 

_He was alone._

Without precedent, he laughed, like it was ripping out of his throat, like he could drown himself in it.  The sound was so close to a sob he couldn’t tell the difference anymore.  It consumed him; his body trembled with it, buckled beneath it.

Everything in him collapsed.

\--

Dean couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t even try, from the moment he saw that pipe connect with Cas’ head, that awful sickening crack and the wail that followed.  Fuck.   _Fuck._ It was horrible, the sound shooting through him, making him feel cold, terrified.  Dean would kill to never have to hear it again.  

He was going to kill him.   

“Cas!” he heard himself shout, his voice breaking.

_No._

Dean felt the cold, heavy metal of his father’s pistol pressed up under his belt, his hand already wrapped around the grip, thumbing off the safety, a click in the silence.  He started forward, toward that bastard Zach with his mouth hanging half open, blood-spattered… fuck.   _Fuck_  there was blood. 

_Please no._

The pipe fell out of Zach’s hand, hitting the ground with a harsh clatter, and Dean blinked away the red behind his eyes, moved faster until he was bearing down on him, his finger on the trigger.  He shoved the gun up under Zachariah’s chin and the bastard didn’t even have the decency to look upset about it because his eyes were still firmly locked on Cas who still stood.  Wide, scared.

Then Cas started laughing. 

Dean jerked around to look at him.  Blood ran down in stripes from Cas’ nose, over his lips, teeth coated in it even as he grinned.  There was a horrible, painful lurch of Dean’s stomach in response.  It was a mockery of a smile he’d once tasted, once craved.  It was twisted up.  Wrong.  Castiel’s chest shook and heaved forward as he laughed.  Dean looked down and saw Sam, gaping at Cas from the ground from a couple feet away, pushing himself back into a sitting position.

Sam.  He’d saved Sam.

The laughter dissipated as quickly as it had come, Cas taking an unsteady step forward, eyes gone heavy lidded and vacant as his legs gave way beneath him.  Sam shoved himself forward and caught Cas against his chest mid-fall, helping him slump to the ground.  Cas went limp against him, head sagging against Sam’s chest, his eyes still open but unfocused.  A small whimper caught in the back of his throat.

“Castiel?” Dean heard a deep voice murmur, not Zachariah’s.  Uriel stepped forward, past his brother and Dean, falling on his knees and reaching out a thick hand to run through Cas’ hair.  Dean clenched his jaw, held his breath when Cas flinched in pain.  When Uriel pulled it away, his hand was slick with blood.  “What did you  _do_?”

Dean bared his teeth, returning his attention to Zachariah,  _only_  to Zachariah, the world blanking out around him as he shoved the gun harder against his skin. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he said through clenched teeth, his anger keeping him upright even as he felt hot tears burning behind his eyes.

“We have to call someone,” Zachariah said, still refusing to look away from his brother.  It was so calm, so fucking level that Dean didn’t even know what to do with it.  The barrel of the gun was leaving a red imprint on the underside of Zachariah’s chin.  “We need to get help.”

“Fuck you,” Dean said, his voice breaking, his finger just barely brushing the trigger.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice called out to him, sounding like he was far away.  With it came a low muttering sound, a string of unintelligible words that he tried desperately to ignore because it was ripping him apart.  Cas’ voice.  _Cas_.  “Dean you have to stop!”

“He came after you,” Dean said, logically.  “Cas –”

“I know, Dean.  You still have to  _stop_ ,” he said, and Dean realized Sam was crying now.  “Listen to me! Put the fucking gun  _down_! What the hell are we going to do without you?” he pleaded, voice broken, wavering. “Cas?”

Cas gasped, and  _that_ made Dean finally turn, pulling away from Zachariah.

“You hurt my family again and I will fill you so full of holes your own fucking brothers won’t recognize you,” Dean threatened, the gun still pointed at Zachariah’s face.  Slowly, he lowered the gun, dropped to his knees beside his brother.  He could hear Cas’ voice more clearly now, soft and panicky. 

“Quiet.  Be quiet, calm.  Be calm, you’ll upset her, you have to control yourself, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ , I’m trying.”

Dean bit the inside of his lip, setting the gun down on the ground in front of him before he reached out, his fingertips grazing Cas’ cheek.  The touch seemed to calm him down, if only a little.  “I’m sorry, sorry, it hurts _,”_ Cas mumbled, his eyes dangerously unfocused like he wasn’t seeing anything.  Or if he was, it wasn’t anything that was actually there.

“Sam, call the police,” Dean said, his voice so drained it came out almost as a whisper. 

“Fucked up, broken thing, what’s wrong with you… just control – control yourself, you’re fucked, fu – I’m sorry,” Cas breathed, an unending, terrifying string of disconnected thoughts that made Dean’s stomach turn.  He looked away from Cas’ bloodshot eyes for a moment, and up at his brother, his fingers still rubbing soothing, delicate circles against his skin.

“Please,” Dean choked.  Sam nodded, looking down at Cas pressed against his chest, Dean’s hand cupping his face.  Uriel just watched them from a couple feet away, knees pressed up against the concrete.

“You care about him,” Uriel said. 

“You think?” Dean snapped, angrily.  Uriel frowned and Dean leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Cas’ shoulders, pulling him against his chest so Sam could move from under him. Dean eyed the bloodstain on his brother's shirt with a sick, sinking feeling.   Once Sam was upright, cell pressed against his ear, a few tears marring his face, Dean moved to get Cas into a better position in his lap.  He was careful, moved slowly.  Dean eventually sat with his legs splayed, Cas draped across with his head pillowed against Dean’s thigh, blood already soaking through.  The whole time Cas just kept talking to himself, mostly unintelligible, sometimes scared and apologetic.  Dean reached down to cup Cas’ face in both of his hands, thumbs pressed up under his beautiful, bright eyes.

He was desperately scared Cas would close them.

“Hey,” Dean said, and Cas’ eyes finally focused.  On him.  “We have an ambulance comin’, you’ll be okay.” He didn’t know who he was saying that more for, him or Cas.  Cas didn’t seem to respond to that, he just kept staring up at him like he couldn’t understand. 

Dean was suddenly, painfully aware that Cas might not want him here.

He held on anyway.

\--

“Thank you,” Sam said, hoarse into the receiver of his phone.  The woman on the other end said they had minutes until help arrived.  Sam hoped it wouldn’t be too long.

Sam gripped a hand at the inside of his elbow, his eyes burned.

“ _Is the wound closed or penetrating?_ ”

“What?”  Sam took a breath, shaking.  “Closed.  I think, he’s uh... he's b-bleeding... God, but…”

“ _Okay.  The most important thing is to prevent further spinal injury.  Is his neck supported?_ ”

“I t-think so,” Sam said, turning and looking at Dean.  Cas’ head was propped delicately against his brother’s thigh.  “He’s, I don’t know, I don’t know…”

“ _Take a deep breath, help is coming soon. We just want to make sure he doesn’t sustain any more injuries.  Are his attackers still at the scene?_ ”

“Yes.

“ _Are you or the victim in immediate danger?_ ”

“No.”

“ _Okay.  The victim may be in shock, cover him in a blanket if possible._ ”  Was Cas in shock?  Was that why he was acting so strangely? He looked around, expecting to see a pile of blankets up against the alley wall.

He took a deep breath, turning to look at his brother.  He was cradling Cas in his arms. 

Sam had never felt so small in his life.

“ _Sir?_ ”

“I have to go,” Sam said quietly.

He held the receiver in his hand for a moment, the woman on the other end trying to get his attention again before he hung up on her.  He stood there, silent, before dialing another number, not sure what he was doing until he heard a ringing in his ear.  After three consecutive tones there was a voice at the other end, groggy with sleep.

“ _Hello?_ ” she asked, and Sam had to dig his nails into his palm to keep himself from breaking down completely right then.

“J-Jess?” Sam choked out, “I need you to talk to me.”

“ _Sam?_ ” she asked, sleepily, “ _Sam… what?  What’s wrong?_ ” There was a rustling sound over the line, and Sam bit the inside of his lip until his mouth tasted like metal.  “ _Sam?_ ”

“He’s hurt, Jess, he’s –“ Sam reached up to put a hand over his mouth, eyes flicking over to his brother and Cas.  Dean ran a hand through Cas’ hair, his jaw clenching.  Sam knew Cas was still breathing because he could see it, reflected by the streetlamps, stark against the dark brick.  Still, his stomach turned.

“ _Sam, are you okay?_ ”

“Cas pushed me out of the way,” Sam said, finally managing to focus on Jess again, trying to look elsewhere, at Zachariah now pressed up against the alley wall a safe distance from Dean, and then down the alley into the open street, watching for flashing lights.  They had to come soon.  “He took the hit for me and now he’s… God, he’s confused, I think.”  Sam took a deep breath. 

“ _Sam, it’s gunna be okay_ ,” she told him.

“You promise?” he said, his voice soft, desperate sounding.

The silence that followed was painful.  Sam shut his eyes against it.

“Just talk to me,” Sam breathed.

“ _About what?_ ”

“Anything.”

\--

They sat there in silence, for a minute or two, while Dean listened to his brother speaking softly into his cell.  Cas managed to relax a little, kept his eyes open even though the color was draining from his face, the red too stark against his skin.  Dean didn’t know how to make this better, he wasn’t prepared for this.  He didn’t know how to make him more comfortable, or if he should apply pressure to the wound.  It was bleeding, too fucking much, but Dean was more afraid of swelling, the strain it was putting on Cas’ brain. 

Something was already wrong.

Dean knew more or less how head injuries worked, he’d seen a few.  Too young at the time, too much to process, but he had.  What he remembered… scared him.

He eyed Uriel and Zachariah, already resigned to wait for the police.  Properly fucking worried, too.  At least there was that.  Dean didn’t realize they had it in them.

“I lied,” Cas breathed, so soft that Dean almost missed it.

Then he repeated it, words blending together.  “I lied, I lied.”’ Dean’s heart started pounding in his ears, making him dizzy.  He wasn’t sure if it was meant for him or if it was just another thing muttered because of those shots misfiring in Cas’ head, confusing him, pulling him away somewhere else.  Somewhere that scared him.

“What?” Dean asked, his eyes training down toward Cas’ lips, suddenly needing to wipe away the blood that was drying in messy patches against his skin.  He dragged his thumb under Cas’ nose, and his skin was deathly cold.  He didn’t so much wipe the blood away as move it around, and for some reason that infuriated him.  He wanted to break something, wanted to break himself, but Cas needed him.  He needed someone.

“I want you,” Cas finally answered, his breath hitching when Dean swiped his thumb beneath his bottom lip.  Dean’s heart might have stopped beating, the way it seized up in his chest.  “Always, never stopped.”

“Yeah?” Dean choked, real tears in his eyes now, cutting hot lines across his frozen skin.

“Started falling,” Cas said, closing his eyes for a second and Dean wanted to scream at him to open them again, “Started falling the moment I met you.”

Dean curled over, pressed his forehead to Cas’, his hands wanting to wind into his hair.  Instead, Dean brushed his thumbs against Cas' lips, traced that soft shape.  “You know when I started fallin’ in love with you, Cas?” Dean whispered, so low only Cas could hear him.  His voice was breaking, ragged.  “Second time you came over, when you walked outta my room looking like you’d just gotten in a fucking fight.  Your hair was a mess and you had to hold your pants up to keep them from sagging.  Then you fell asleep with your face shoved between the couch cushions and you fuckin’ snored.”  

Dean laughed at the memory, even as he felt another tear roll down his cheek.  Cas shuddered against him like he might be laughing too.

“You know when I _knew_ I loved you?”  Dean said, even lower now, leaning in to kiss him, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth, reminding him what was happening, where they were.  “When I saw you laugh, same night you told me and I was too fuckin’ scared to do anything about it.”

Everything started to go bad again. 

Cas’ body tensed, and a cold shiver ratcheted through him.  Dean ran a hand down along his arm, a soothing motion, but when he pulled back to look at him, Cas’ eyes were glazed over and drooping.

“Cas?”  Dean shook him, and he made a small, scared sound.

“It hurts,” Cas murmured, wincing in pain, eyes screwed shut.  “I can’t, I don’t want to fight anymore,”

Dean held onto him, as tightly as he could without hurting him.  Cas went lax, his head rolling slightly to the side. The thick stain of blood on Dean’s jeans chilled in the open air. 

“Please don’t close your eyes, man, you gotta stay awake.”

“S’hard,” Cas slurred, breathing too shallow.  He tried, though, his eyes opening slowly. They were vacant, like he wasn’t really seeing anything around him.  Dean would take what he could get.  “Where’s Anna?” Cas breathed.  Dean felt like he’d been punched in the chest.

“She’s not here, baby,” Dean answered, his voice small.  “Remember?”  Cas didn’t say anything, but pain flashed in his eyes before they slid shut again.  “Cas, come on!”

In the distance he heard sirens, felt a hand close over his shoulder.

Dean just said his name until his throat was raw.

 

At some point, it had started to quietly snow.  No one had noticed. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for drug addiction, mental illness, and references to child abuse.

Castiel moved through dense woods.  His arms were down by his sides, dirt pinched between his toes.  He couldn’t see far beyond himself and that heavy thicket, horizon beyond it still waiting to be painted in.

He continued on endlessly.   

The forest came to life as he walked, plants and trees blooming and dying around him as the seasons bled into one another.  The air was crisp as it blew leaves from the trees only to be replaced with more in vibrant hues, crimson and forest.  It never really touched him, though, like he existed behind a sheet of glass, a safe distance. 

Pain shot down his spine, near blinding. 

Reality shuddered, like static on an old television.  Edges of the world turned dark, cut through with flurries of white and a cold that bit at his skin like dull razors.  Snow fell in a thin blanket at his feet, melting at the slightest touch.  He thought this place was beautiful draped in white.

Castiel felt a dull tap against his skin as he moved to thread his hand into his hair.  His palm rested against the back of his neck. 

When he looked up there was a flash of green.  It blinked.

The world was thin around the edges, a distant noise like fingernails scratching the outside of his skull.  Dull, unimportant.  Castiel stood up straight, his shoulders heavy and somehow warmer than the rest of his body, limbs numbing over with that phantom cold.  He took a deep breath, finding the air thin, but the green forest returned with his exhale, the snow washing away as easily as it had come.

Voices he could forget existed darkened and grew beyond him.  They turned to birdsong, to rustling and scampering across the forest floor.

He felt something warm slip from his hand.  He hadn’t known he’d be holding anything.

Longing needled at his skin.  It lasted for a breath.

He exhaled.

Castiel liked it here.  It felt familiar, like warm nights in bed with Anna, knees tucked together like praying hands.  He hummed a song he hardly remembered, older than Anna’s favorite music.  Something he’d heard long before he’d learned to recite it back.  His voice rasped softly, the breath leaving him with difficulty.  Still, when the melody hit the air it sounded right.

It calmed him.  Everything about this place calmed him.

The wood unfolded around him in a great breath.  He could see through the trees that surrounded him, open forest beyond.  Branches swayed, leaves and flowers blossomed across them in heavy green and white patches.

Castiel walked through the wood into open space.  He stood in the center of a small glen, soft grass brushing against his skin.  Something foreign touched him, little taps of pressure against his bare chest and inside his elbow.  He looked down and saw honey bees flitting all around him, plump bodies clumsily bumping him as they passed by.

He reached out to touch one with the tip of his finger.

Trying to comprehend their presence, this place, he found there was no fight left in him.  He smiled, took a breath that tasted like pollen and honey, and let it go.  It was simpler.  Castiel ignored the doubt that sat in the back of his mind, ignored its conviction, its fear.

He was done with it. 

He tried to be done with it.

Something heavy pressed down against his body, and he blinked, the trees shook, leaves jostled from their branches to fall idly down to earth.  He reached out to take one in his palm, to run his thumb along its veins. 

_Searing.  White hot.  Pain._

The trees encroached on him.  Branches dragged along his arms, dug into his skin.  The scene beyond went white with fog.  Sudden light cast him in the shadow of the descending wood. Contrast heightened, silhouettes flashing in front of his eyes.  He saw branches turn to appendages, his head throbbing and his chest heaving. 

He gripped at the leaf in his hand, tried to focus on the color.  Yellow, then red.  He watched it die.

He heard himself groan.

_Wet.  Ragged._

Figures encircled him, the light between their bodies thinning to nothing.  He couldn’t map out shapes, he couldn’t think.  He grasped for the woods, the open air, the calm.

It slipped away, and he let it all fall.  Their silhouettes stretched until it was all he could see, the pitch dark.  The black.

Finally, he welcomed it.

\--

Dean felt hands around his shoulders, a hard tug that took him further from where he needed to be.

“Let me in, you have to let me go with him goddamn it!” Dean shouted, his voice breaking.

“You need to calm the hell down,” a steady voice said back, and Dean wrenched himself around, staring up at a police officer.  He had dark skin, darker eyes, and an expression of concern and very controlled frustration.

“These bastards won’t let me see him, what if he –“

“This is exactly why they won’t let you in!  Your friend is in bad shape, and I know it’s hard but you actin’ like this isn’t gunna fuckin’ help him, so calm the hell down!” The officer spoke in rushed, serious tones.  “I need your help, _he_ needs your help, and you can’t do that if I gotta restrain you.”

Dean stared up at him.  He swallowed.

“If something happens–“

“I know,” the officer said, letting his hold on Dean’s shoulders go slack.  “Let them do their job.”

Dean rubbed at his eyes, looked back at the ambulance. His chest hurt.

“My name’s Victor Henrickson,” the officer said, “You gunna be calm?”

“Like I’ve got a choice,” he replied tersely, his shoulders going slack.  Snow fell in soft flurries against Dean’s cheeks, a cold that pierced through him to the bone.  He shivered and bit his lip.  He missed Cas’ warmth, even convulsing in his arms. If he could just keep him present, with him.

Separated from him, it was just this.  Just cold.  Just fear.

“What’s your name?” Victor asked, letting go of him altogether. 

“Dean.”

“Dean, I need you to tell me what happened.”

Dean took a deep breath, nodded, walking away from the ambulance toward his brother.  He’d try.  Try to do what they asked without losing it on someone.

Once Sam stood by his side, Dean felt calmer. 

His brother’s eyes were bloodshot, but dry, as Dean tried to explain what happened to Victor.  Sam hadn’t seen much but the aftermath. “Sam snuck out, and I followed him here.  When I got to the alley they were arguing, Cas was standing between Sam and Zach, trying to calm him down.”  Dean felt almost disconnected; it was surreal to lay it out.  Just go over the events, one after the other, like it hadn’t happened to him.  Like it wasn’t real or present.

“I… fuck… I called out to Sam, and Sam turned his back for two goddamn seconds and Zach went for him.  Cas…“ Dean’s voice broke, because that felt real. He reached up to set his palm over his mouth.  “Cas got there first.”  He felt sick.  Sam’s hand closed on his shoulder.

He could still feel the warmth of Cas’ hand slipping from his.  He rubbed his fingers together like he could preserve it.

“And after that?” Victor asked, his eyes softening as they looked him over. “Look, we’ll get a detailed statement later, I just need something.”

“Cas pushed Sam out of the way, and then I saw him take the hit, to the back of the head,” Dean said, eyes drawn to the dark red stain on his jeans.  He could feel his stomach twist into knots.  Everything had been so fucked up, so complicated, but one hit later and it was simple. 

He had to get back to Cas.

Dean focused on the scene, the ambulance pulling out and making its way down the empty street, sirens going off and lighting the way as it went.  Shadows licked at the sides of buildings like hellfire. To the left, Zachariah was being herded into the back of a police car.  Uriel trailed behind his brother soundlessly.

Dean ran his hand through his hair, scrubbing at the back of his neck. 

“You boys need a ride?” Victor asked, finally putting away his notepad, clicking his pen under his thumb.

“I’ve got a car,” Dean said, his tone edging toward frustration as the sound of sirens faded off.  “I need to get Sam to a friend’s, he can’t come with me.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam shot, grabbing his shoulder and jerking him around.  “The hell?  Cas is my friend too! You can’t just –“

“Sam, listen to me for once, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you walk into that hospital.  His brother just came at you with a goddamn _pipe_!  You think this whole thing is gunna magically get less fucked up?”

“What about you?  You’re not exactly off their shit list, Dean,” Sam bit angrily.

“And least I’m not _top fucking tier_ , Sam, Jesus Christ.  I’m callin’ Ellen, and you’re staying with her till we get this shit straightened out.”

“Woah, woah, wait…” Victor interjected.

Sam ignored him, voice loud and echoing through the empty street. “How?  How the hell are we supposed to do that, huh?”  He had a death grip on Dean’s arm, his fingers dug against his skin through cotton and leather.  “We’ve all been doing a fucking bang up job at straightening shit out so far, right Dean?”  There were tears in his eyes.  “Cas is bleeding out of his skull, and he can’t even tell where he is and we can’t do shit and it’s _my fault_.”

Dean stared as his brother, his face contorted and tears streaming down his face.  Sam seemed to try and suck it back in, taking a deep breath to steel himself, but the sobs wracked at his body.  “Christ, Sammy,” Dean muttered, pulling Sam into his arms.

“I’ll go, fine, but what about you, huh?  Cas said we were _targets_ , that’s why he left.  If you see him…”

“I’m not leaving him, Sam,” Dean said quietly, pulling back to look Sam full in the face.  He lost his nerve almost immediately and looked down at the pavement.  “I can’t just leave him.”

“Hey, look at me,” Victor said, setting a hand on Dean’s shoulder, pulling him around to look him in the face.  “The hell is going on here?”

Dean focused on the officer, his hand trembling slightly against his brother’s shoulder.  “It’s complicated,” Dean answered tersely.

“Yeah, no shit,” Victor responded, meeting Dean’s eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck.  “Your friend, last name Novak, right?  There’s a guy that we’ve had our eye on for months with the same name.  Can’t pull him in for anything,” he paused, a humorless smirk across his full lips.  “Yet.”  Dean frowned at him, and Victor sighed.  “They related?”

“Shit.  Yeah,” Dean said, “Raphael, right?”

“I was afraid of that.  Damn it.”  Victor looked around, met the eye of another cop who had appeared from the mouth of the alley.  He nodded, and turned back.  “I’m comin’ with you.”                                 

“What?” Dean asked, startled, “Why?”

“Cause I know you won’t be smart and back off, and I don’t want to deal with two incidents in one night,” he replied, a mix of concern and resignation in his expression.  Dean stared at him, letting his hand drop from Sam’s shoulder.  “Look, give me the address and I’ll drop off your brother.  After that I’m trailing you to the hospital.  I won’t come in, but if you need me –”

“Yeah,” Dean said, turning to look him full in the face, his shoulders set.  “Thanks.  Ellen owns the bar just down the street. They live on the third floor of the apartment complex next door.  Ellen’s like a parent, she’ll take Sam no question.”

“Alright, I’ll make sure he gets there safe,” Victor said, eyes on Sam.  “And Dean, just so you know, that was some dumb shit you pulled with that weapon.”

Dean turned his head down, staring at the pavement.  He could feel Victor’s eyes on him.  “I saw you tuck it away.” Victor said, his voice low.  “If you’d pulled that trigger… you’re damn lucky you didn’t.  You’re lucky I don’t pull you in with the other two.  They could put you on parole, or take you away from your brother.”

Dean frowned, swallowing hard.  Victor sighed and crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking around the open street.

“Go see your friend.”

Cas’ face flashed in his mind, his vacant blue eyes as they strapped him to the gurney.

Dean gave Sam one final look before he sprinted back toward the Impala.

\--

Victor offered to drive the short distance in his police cruiser, but Sam chose to walk to Ellen’s.  There was something about the weather that kept him from losing it again, kept him focused. 

It also numbed him, and he thought maybe it would be nice.  To be numb.

He made his way to the apartment complex.  The windows of the building were empty and dark, all but Ellen and Jo’s which shone with a dim florescent light through thin curtains.  Hearing someone come up behind him, Sam glanced around to see Victor standing beside him, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“You think Cas’ll be okay?” Sam asked, knowing that Victor couldn’t possibly know any better than he did.

“I wish I could tell you different, but I dunno kid.  I’ve seen plenty of people recover from injuries like that.  Good chance he will too.”  Sam looked up into his eyes, soft and stern.  Like his father’s almost, but more open.  Sam pursed his lips, set his jaw, and nodded slowly.

“Sam!” a familiar voice shouted at him.  Sam barely had time to blink before Jo’s arms circled around his shoulders, warm and familiar.  He hugged her back.  As tight as he could.

“Jo,” he said, “Hey, I’m sorry it’s late…”

“Don’t apologize. God, where’s Dean?  Is he not with you?”  She pulled back and looked at Sam, her big, brown eyes watery and tired.  “What happened?  Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed, “No, uh, no.  Not really.  Cas got hurt… bad hurt.  Dean is…”

“I’m gunna go make sure nothing happens to him, okay?” Victor said to the both of them.  “You two get inside, be safe.  I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, turning to him and holding out his hand.  Victor took it, gave it a steady, two handed shake.

Jo wrapped her hand around his wrist, tugging him toward the stairwell.  Sam followed, listening as Victor padded back to his vehicle, engine revving, and then peeling out into the empty street.  Sam held his breath until he walked into Jo’s apartment, the warm air pressing down on his limbs like a thick blanket.  Taking a deep breath, he backed up against the wall, burying his face between his palms.

“You want something to drink?” Jo asked, rubbing his arms, trying to warm him.  “Mom’s not home yet.  I called her, but she can’t leave the bar till closing.  Do you want to sleep?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said quietly, “A drink would be good.  Sleep would be better.  I don’t know if I can, I’m really worried.”

“Yeah I know,” she answered, pulling away.  “Sleepytime or Peppermint?”

“Peppermint,” Sam said, lowering his arms.  “And valium if you have it.”

It wasn’t really a joke, and Jo didn’t really laugh. 

Sam walked forward slowly and pulled her into another hug.  He didn’t want to think about it.  Not right now.  “Haven’t really gotten to talk to you since I got back,” he said, chin rested on top of her head, “Everything’s been so mixed up for such a long time.  I missed you.  You and Ellen.  I’m sorry.  I feel like time is running out, or it could so easily.  And it’s… terrifying.”

“It’s the past.  We love you, you know that,” Jo smiled, squeezing his waist, face pressed against his chest.  “I missed your growth spurt.  Kinda bitter about that.”

“Maybe I’ll have another,” he smiled.

“God, let’s hope not.”

She laughed against him, squeezed him one more time before pulling away.  They both walked to the kitchen, shoulders brushing.

\--

Dean all but burst into the emergency room, stalking up to the window and placing both hands on the desk.  A thoroughly unimpressed nurse, plump and blonde, looked up at him, clicking her pen and frowning.  He took a deep breath, trying to keep calm.

“I’m looking for Cas… uh, Castiel Novak.  He came in… probably twenty minutes ago.  Head injury?”  Dean didn’t know what he was asking for, just news.  Something.  “Please, tell me he’s…”

“Are you immediate family?” she asked, setting the pen down and clasping her hands over the desk.  Dean bit the inside of his cheek, shoving his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t knock on the damn glass sheet window that separated them.

“No, but…”

“I can’t do anything for you,” she sighed.

Dean stared at her.

“You can’t even tell me if he’s alive?” he asked, borderline frantic. 

“I can’t even confirm that he’s here,” she said, busying herself with a pile of paperwork.  It was a dismissal.  Dean bristled.  He pressed his face against the window, fingernails digging into his palms. “You should go.”

“Please,” he said, his breath fogging the glass.  “Please.”

She didn’t even look up at him. 

It took everything he had not to put his fist through the window.  He turned to face the exit, saw a man stalk up in a suit and tie, shaven head and dark, tired eyes.  He frowned at Dean as he passed, heading up to the window and tapping on the glass impatiently.  

“Raphael Novak, I’m here about my brother.  He was admitted here less than twenty minutes ago.  Dark hair, most likely wearing a tan jacket.”

A chill ran down Dean’s spine, and he turned, watching the exchange.

“Your brother’s been taken to get a CT scan, possible surgery following if necessary.  You won’t be able to see him immediately, but I can call for a nurse to direct you to the floor he’s on. Just sit tight,” the woman said, turning to make a call.  Raphael looked over at him, then, his expression dark.

“You need to leave,” he said, voice low, “Now.”

“No.”

Raphael’s eyebrows knit together, his eyes cast in shadow.

“You’re insane if you think I’m leaving him like this,” Dean spat.  His hands shook in his pockets, and so he pulled them out.  He’d never hated someone as much as he hated the man in front of him, not even Zach.  Raphael could be all that stood between him and Cas, and Dean wouldn’t be able to do shit.

“I don’t really think you have a choice, Winchester.” Raphael hissed, “I’m his family, you’re nothing.”

“Your fucking family is the whole reason he’s here!” Dean half shouted.  He stepped forward into Raphael’s space.  He could hear his own blood pumping through his veins.

“No,” Raphael said dangerously. “You are.”

Dean swallowed, felt his hands curl into tight fists.

“You won’t be able to see him.  If you care about him at all, leave.  Stay the hell away from my family.  You and your brother have caused enough damage.  I won’t ask again.”

Dean clenched his jaw, and spoke in a rough, quiet tone, “I don’t give two fucks who you are.  You don’t think I’m dangerous, but if Cas doesn’t make it, I’m coming for you,” Dean said, watching Raphael’s eyes carefully.  He didn’t blink.  “I’ll rip you apart with my teeth if he doesn’t walk out of here.  You can count on that.”  Raphael stared at him, his lips pursed.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Mister Novak?  Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Raphael nodded, glancing at Dean once more before following the nurse around the corner.  Dean watched after him.  The woman behind the glass tapped her pen until he looked down at her.  She pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward the exit.

Fuck.  _Fuck._

Dean scowled and turned to leave, pushing out into the bitter cold, the snow falling heavier and slicing against his skin.  He paced the area, watching ambulances pull into a small overhang, double doors leading back into the hospital.  He saw a patient strapped to a gurney, oxygen mask over their face as an EMT pushed them into the building. 

Dean wasn’t sure when exactly he’d started crying, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

\--

“Hey! You!” Dean heard an unfamiliar voice call out to him.  He turned, his vision bleary.  He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, shivering. 

“What?” Dean spat, looking the nurse up and down.  She was slender, long brown hair falling over her thick coat, hands tucked under her arms.  “What do you want?”

“Name’s Pam.  I wanna help,” she said, huffing and shuddering as a gust of wind blew past them.  “I saw that little show you put on in the ER.  We get a lot of worried friends and family, sometimes their hysterical, but I’ll admit the death threats are pretty rare.”

Dean frowned at her, reached up and wiped his eyes again.  She watched him carefully.  He didn’t speak.

“Your friend took a bad hit.  Came out here to tell you he’s just been taken to surgery for a subdural hematoma, which basically means there’s internal bleeding.  The doctors are doing what they can, trying to relieve the pressure on the brain. We should know more in a few hours,” she said. 

The fear from not knowing turned into a different kind of dread.  “You really don’t want to leave him,” Pam said.

“I really… I can’t,” Dean said, closing his eyes.

“Damn it,” she said, teeth chattering.  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette, taking a few tries to light it.  “Look, if you stick around I can come back and let you know what’s happening in a few hours.  I’d suggest taking a drive to clear your head in the meantime, if the roads aren’t too bad.  Maybe get some sleep.  We do have security around here.  It won’t be less than three hours till we know something, I can tell you that much.  It’d be stupid to freeze to death outside an ER.”

“Seriously?” Dean asked.  She took a drag and smiled, nodding. 

“I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for tragic love stories,” she said.  Dean shifted, taking a deep breath.

“I’m so far gone,” Dean admitted quietly, rubbing at his eyes.

“Thought so,” Pam said, her voice gentle.  Dean looked up and she smiled at him, a sad, sympathetic look.

“Thank you,” Dean said, his voice cracking.

“Yeah, don’t mention it.  To anyone,” she said, pulling herself up straight taking another long drag before tossing the cigarette on the ground.  She stomped it beneath her sneakers.

Dean watched as Pam walked back inside, stood there in the middle of the sidewalk while the snow blanketed around his feet.  He took a deep breath, stared up at the building before turning away from it, backing up until he was pressed against the freezing brick.  Dean felt simultaneously numb and overstimulated.  His heart wouldn’t calm down, he could feel it aching in the center of his chest.  Breathing was hard.

Dean was strung up in open space, some hellish in between limbo where nothing he did made any fucking difference.

He took his cell from his jacket, thumbing it open and dialing a number, mindlessly.  

It rang in his ear, and he felt panic sting in his throat.

“ _Dean_ ,” a gruff voice answered.  Dean reached up, rubbing at his eyes.

“H-hey Dad?”  Dean looked up, across the street, and he saw a cop car pull into the nearest open space.  Dean figured it might be Victor.  Meant Sam was safe, at least.

“ _Dean, what’s wrong?_ ” John asked, “ _Is Sam okay?_ ”

“Yeah, Sam’s… okay, Dad.  Um…” Dean took a deep breath, the air thin and burning his lungs, “I don’t know what to do.”  His father was quiet, but he heard him breathing over the line.  “Everything’s really fucked up, alright.  My friend’s hurt bad.  I can’t even see him, I can’t do anything.”

“ _Are you hurt?_ ”

“No.”

“ _Good,_ ” John said,“ _Alright.  Listen… I’m in the middle of a case, but I’m gunna head back as soon as I can.  Where are you now?_ ”

“Outside the hospital.”

“ _Shit.  Get to your car, at least.  They won’t even let you sit in emergency?_ ”

“No,” Dean answered, wondering how long they would let him wait in there before calling security.  After regular visiting hours, there was no place else he could go.

“ _Alright.  Dean, look.  I know you can’t right now, and I’m not gunna push you, but you’re gunna tell me what’s goin’ on, okay?_ ”

“Yes sir,” he said, blinking the tears from his eyes and tugging his jacket around him.  He took a deep breath, picked a spot across the street to focus on; a flickering yellow light above the window of a security booth.  “Dad, I’m in love with him.”

There was a long pause.  Dean couldn’t even muster up the energy to worry about it.  He slumped against the wall. Sirens went off in the distance.  The wind whistled between the buildings and cut through his jacket.  A violent shiver wrenched through his body, like he’d been struck.

“ _I’ll have to meet him, then,_ ” was all John said.

Dean stopped trying to hold it together.

\--

Sam was half asleep on the couch when Dean finally came home.

His brother’s face was red from cold, eyes puffy and dark.  Sam watched as Ellen pulled him into her arms, rubbing his back as he hid his face against her shoulder.  Dean started to shake, muttering under his breath while Ellen soothed him.  It didn’t let up for a long while.  Sam tried not to stare, but he couldn’t stop himself.

When Dean finally pulled away from Ellen, she took his leather jacket and headed into the kitchen, coffee already pungent and brewing.  Dean padded over to Sam on the couch, kneeling beside him.  Sam stared up at him, a silent plea for news.

Dean half smiled at Sam.

“Had to take him to surgery.  It went okay, they didn’t find any clots, so that’s good,” Dean closed his eyes, and Sam watched as he took a deep, shaky breath.  “He’s in the ICU and even his family can’t see him for more than a few minutes at a time.  They won’t let me in, or even talk to me.  Pam, this nurse, is the only reason I know anything at all.”

Dean leaned over and pressed his forehead to Sam’s bare arm.  His skin was like ice.  “He hasn’t woken up yet.  We don’t know when he’s wakin’ up.”

“He’ll be okay, Dean,” Sam said.  He needed to believe it just as much as Dean did.

“Okay,” Dean choked out.

Dean eventually pulled away from Sam, wearing the most worn out expression Sam had ever seen on him.  When Dean had crossed the room, Sam closed his eyes, a feeble attempt to sleep more.  It had been a rough night for him, too, tossing and turning, waking up every twenty minutes with a heavy pain in his chest.

He heard Dean refuse Ellen’s offer of coffee, asking where Jo was.  He asked if it was okay, in that grating, exhausted voice, because he didn’t want to sleep alone. 

After that, Dean disappeared, and Sam finally drifted back off.

\--

Dean stopped going to the shop. 

He only made it to school because it was the last few days before break and Jo made him.  Said it wasn’t worth it to throw the entire semester right at the end, that Cas wouldn’t want him to.  That was a fuckin’ low blow, but Dean shrugged it off, being too tired to fight it.  Dean half-assed his finals, hoping he’d get by with C’s and D’s and not really giving a shit either way if he didn’t.

He barely slept.

He visited the hospital at night, because after the first night Raphael only came during the day.  Not that Dean could go in.  He wandered the perimeter, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible, but the security guards just kind of nodded sadly at him, a couple coming up to chat when no new cars had pulled into the lot in ages.  Dean wondered if Pam had tipped them off, but he never asked.

Pam came out for her cigarette break every night at three.  She let him bum one on the second night.  It tasted awful, but it helped him stay calm, helped him bite back other cravings.  The phantom whiskey burn down his throat.

She never had much for him, just that Cas’ condition was still stabilizing, that his eyes still hadn’t opened.  They’d done another CT scan, and hadn’t found anything.  Also, aside from Dean, Raphael and Uriel were the only ones that had shown up to see him.  Dean was glad, at least, that he wasn’t alone, until Pam mentioned one night that according to the day shift nurses, no one had even visited that day.

Dean felt sick.  He’d be in there every second they’d allow him.  He’d talk to Cas until he opened his eyes again.

Dean told Pam everything, how they’d met, how Cas had nudged his way into his and Sam’s lives and then left a hole in his absence.  He talked about how Cas sang to himself when he thought Dean was asleep.  Pam just listened, and nodded, and handed him another cigarette when he’d burn his own down to the filter. 

Pam told Dean that she wouldn’t be on shift the next night, but Dean showed up outside the hospital anyway.  He kicked the rock salt across the pavement, brushed the melting snow into clumps with the toe of his boot.

He prayed.  Which he’d never allowed himself to do after his mom had died.  Silently he prayed, hands in his pockets as he stared at the pavement.  He thought Cas might have prayed for him, and that was enough to make him try.

He palmed Cas’ Saint Jude pendant in his pocket.  He kept it warm.

\--

Pam met him early, only thirty minutes past midnight.  Dean had bought his own pack of cigarettes; chain smoking since he’d arrived.  There was a small pile of burned down filters at his feet.  His lungs were on fire.

“Dean, he’s awake.” 

He nearly broke the cigarette between his fingers. 

“Woke up early this morning.  He’s been moved to a single room the next floor down.  I think I can get you in but you have to promise me you won’t make a scene.  We have normal visitation hours, but his family will be allowed in whenever they like.”

 _Cas._   He could see Cas.

“Dean, you have to listen to me.  He’s awake, but something else is going on.  He’s not… not really speaking. These head injuries can leave people confused sometimes, sometimes for weeks.  We honestly can’t tell how bad his disorientation is if he won’t talk to anyone.”  Dean stared at her, dread pooling in his stomach.  “You should be prepared.  That’s all I’m saying.”

Dean just nodded, taking hold of Cas’ pendant as he followed her into the hospital.

\--

Sam tried not to itch at the inside of his arm, but he could almost feel it, fingers twitching.  That bite, that heady bliss.  He could feel that ecstasy pulling away from him, his body responding by craving it more.  An escape.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath.  Jo watched him.

“You do something stupid and I’ll kill you,” Jo warned, “You know I can do it.”

“Jo, I swear, I just can’t stay here anymore,” he said, gripping at his jacket.  He took his cell phone out of his pocket, scrolling through Dean’s texts again.

_Cas is awake._

_Something’s wrong._

“Has he answered?” Jo asked, looking down at the cell.

“Not yet,” Sam sighed.  “I can’t sleep, I can’t get Dean to talk to me.  I can’t sit around doing nothing.”

“You have to be careful,” Jo said, crossing her arms in front of her chest.  “If I’m covering for you and something happens… Dean won’t forgive me.  I won’t forgive myself.”

“I know.”

Jo looked at him for a couple seconds, frowning.  Her shoulders slumped.  “Mom will be home in less than an hour.  If you need to go… do it now.”

Sam pulled her into a hug, and she squeezed back.  “What are you gunna tell her?” Sam asked quietly.

“I’ll figure something out,” she muttered into his hoodie. “Be safe.”

“I will.”

Sam called a cab, a few twenties bunched up in his palm.  It wasn’t a long drive; he just hoped he’d have enough at the end of it.  He couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread, every time he acted people got hurt.  Sam felt himself tugging on his sleeve, bunching the fabric between his fingers.  He was on edge, his jaw aching from grinding his teeth.

When they finally pulled up in the driveway, Sam stepped out, shoving the money into the driver’s hand.  He took it without question.  The cab backed out of the driveway, salt and sand crunching beneath his tires.  Soon it disappeared around the corner, the street silent and dark.  Sam breathed out, watched his breath fog up the air.  His cell was in his hand in an instant before he reconsidered, walking up to the door and knocking gently. 

He watched the hall light flick on through the windows, watched a figure pad slowly to the door, face pressed against the glass before opening it for him.

“Sam?  What are you doing here?”

“I uh, I really…” Sam choked, taking a deep breath.  “Can I see Jess, please?”

“Sweetie.  Of course, yes, she’s probably still awake.  Come in.”  Ms. Moore herded him into the foyer, her hand on his shoulder even as she called up to Jess.  There were Christmas decorations all over, lights hung over the curtains, candles in the window sill.  A pungent evergreen sat in the corner, covered in red bows, lights, and homemade ornaments.  There was an angel at the top, red hair, hands pressed together in prayer.  She was lit from beneath her skirts, a soft white light.

 “Jessica told me about your friend, I’m so sorry,” Ms. Moore told him, squeezing his shoulder.

Sam heard a small thump, and he let out the breath he’d been holding.  “Yeah,” Sam said, reaching up to scratch mindlessly at the inside of his elbow.  Jess appeared less than a minute later, hair a damp mess, dressed in yoga pants and a long ratty t-shirt.  She frowned at him, running her fingers through her tangles.

“Sam?”

“Hey,” Sam said, moving slowly forward before she opened her arms, and then he fell forward.  She held onto him, shower-warm and present and _alive_.  He held on tighter. 

Jess didn’t let go, even as they moved toward her bedroom.

“Keep the door open,” Ms. Moore said after them, and Sam felt Jess nod back at her, arms tightening around his waist.

Jess sat down on her bed, and pulled Sam to her.  He tucked his head between her neck and shoulder, laid soft kisses there.  One for every pang of guilt, for every stab of need for the drug.  His hands bunched up in her soft shirt, teased the heated skin at her midriff.  She shivered under the attention.  “I hate this,” Sam muttered against her, “I hate not being there.”

“Yeah I know,” she said, pulling them down so they lay face to face, Sam’s arms draped gently around her waist.  He pulled her closer, breathed in the honey sweet scent of her hair, kissed her temple.  She sighed, her body relaxing to fit against his.

“He’s forgetting to eat.  Dean never forgets to eat,” Sam said quietly.  He felt Jess set her palm against his neck.  “I feel like I wasted so much time being afraid I might screw up again.  It’s stupid that it took so much to make me realize that’s something I might not always have enough of. “

“That seems a bit fatalistic,” Jess said.

“It’s really the exact opposite.  I wanna have plans, I wanna live my life.  I don’t want to run out of time, I don’t want Cas to run out of time.”  Sam reached up, tucked her hair behind her ear.  “I really want you to kiss me.”

“I can do that,” she smiled.  She leaned in and kissed him, soft and sweet.  He let it wrap him up, let it warm him.  Their bodies moved together, a gentle swell, an easy push and pull.  They enveloped one another, limbs overlapping, lips pressed against skin. 

Sam fell asleep like that, her hands trailing through his long hair.

\--

The woods came in dull sparks, filling in like watercolor over thick, textured paper.  It was spring now, air dense with pollen, colors in pastels and vibrant.  He watched in awe, smiling gently.

The light made him feel sick, but he swallowed, and it passed.

He loved the bees.  One perched on his finger, tiny little legs tickling his skin.  They’d come back first, before the space had really filled itself in.  They buzzed around his head, tapped against his cheek.  He felt it again, the tapping, and he turned his head.  Shadows flickered across his vision, but they turned to trees. 

He accepted his reality, and it grew solid.  The wind touched him, brushed past his bare shoulders.  He couldn’t remember how he’d ended up here, but he felt like maybe he’d been asleep.  It had been ages since he’d really slept.

At first it had been pain, he remembered that.  A dull throbbing ache that started at the back of his head, wound its way down his body.  He remembered drab gray walls that he willed to blue, open sky.  He remembered voices, indistinct muttering that turned to buzzing in his ears. 

He remembered a bright, nauseating light blowing his pupils wide, and knowing it was just the sun. 

He’d turned his head down toward the ground.

Castiel walked forward, honey bee still perched on his outstretched hand.  He reached over with his other hand, touched its back, found it soft.  It hopped up, then, and it began to flit in happy little circles around his head, knocking into his temple.  Settling down, it flew into the center of a small brush, lily white and pastel pink flowers blooming across the soft earth.

He felt a tug, warmth that spread from the base of his neck and up his cheeks.  He reached up and touched his own face, tears pricking at his eyes, though he didn’t know why.  They never really fell.  He never let them fall anymore. 

Not even here, in his safe haven.

He reached out and took hold of a thin branch, curving it beneath his fingers.  It was malleable, twisting like clay, petals falling from newly sprouted buds.  He took pleasure in warping it to something else, into something like a chameleon’s tail or a mottled cane, bulbous and curving in on itself.  When he let it go, the shapes stuck, and he retraced it with his fingers.

_Cas_

Castiel jerked his head around, but the voice tapered away, replaced by the slight whistling of wind.  Leaves blew past on a breeze, the seasons changing again, yellow, red, and brown littering the ground, crunching beneath his toes.  He knelt down, into the brush, every crack of twigs and rustle of leaves burying the familiar, deep tone….

It was somewhere else, somewhere that couldn’t touch him.

“Castiel,” she said.  Lithe hands touched at his shoulders, a body lay down with him beneath the shade of the trees.  He felt a warm pressure against his chest, right above his heart.  It made him ache, a need that twisted in his gut, a longing.  He reached out and found himself alone, nothing but the warm sun beating down on his face, on his bare limbs. 

He buried himself in the brush.

“Open your eyes,” she said.

“They’re open,” he responded, his voice cracking from disuse.  He stared through the thick pile of autumn leaves.  He saw a flash of red hair, milky white skin.

“Not yet.”

\--

Dean hated the room.  It was a dirty, uniform gray, a tiny window shoved in the corner that overlooked a parking garage.  That starched, bleach stench that he breathed in with unease.  Cas didn’t belong here.  He didn’t belong hooked up to that IV, bed whirring noisily as it reset so Cas’ muscles wouldn’t go to shit. 

Goddamn it, but at least he was here.

Dean watched him for a few seconds before he moved forward.  Cas hadn’t responded to his entry, staring vacantly at nothing in particular, laid back on a pile of uncomfortable looking off-white pillows.  His eyes were barely open, but Dean could see flickers of that blue. 

They looked dim.  Cas looked very, very far away. 

Dean approached the bed, sat at the edge.  He reached out and touched Cas’ cheek.  Cas responded, very slightly, to the touch, his head moving toward it so Dean’s palm was pressed open against his skin. 

His hair was too short in the back, a bandage taped over the spot where he’d been hit.  It was long in the front, though, not sticking up like it usually was.  It lay in limp curls against his forehead.  Dean brushed them aside with his other hand.

It really hit him, in that moment.  He was finally here.  Cas was alive, and warm.  Something was very wrong, but right then Dean couldn’t let himself really feel that because he was just so goddamn happy.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean choked, petting at Cas’ cheek with delicate fingers.  “Hey, baby, sorry it took me so long to get here.”  He reached out with his other hand, cupping Cas’ face and leaning forward.  He tried to get Cas to look at him, but he just closed his eyes, like he was trying to block it out.  “I’m so fucking happy you’re alive,” Dean said, pressing his lips to Cas’ forehead.  He smelled all wrong, it made something in Dean lurch. 

Dean slowly let go of Cas, running a knuckle down across his cheek before he stopped touching him completely.  He reached into his pocket, took out the Saint Jude pendant out and cradled it in his palm.  “Found somethin’ of yours.  Though it might help,” he said, staring at it for a moment before he moved.  Very carefully he got the chain around Cas’ neck, palming the warm skin as he went.  It laid flat against his hospital shirt, Dean giving it one final swipe of his thumb.

There was a chair near the small window, and Dean stood up from the bed and walked toward it.  He dragged it, as quietly as he could, to Cas’ bedside, and sat himself there.  He propped his elbows on the edge of the bed, wanting to touch him again but holding himself back.

Pam said he should talk to him, that it might help.

“My mother’s name was Mary,” Dean started.  “She was beautiful, Cas, she loved to bake.  She listened to the Beatles, too.  You two coulda geeked it up together.  I think she would have loved you.  I know you would have loved her.”  Dean reached out, ran a hand over Cas’ chest just to feel the rise and fall.  “I only remember her in small flashes, I remember her barefoot in the kitchen and covered in flour.  I remember her better when I’m asleep.  It’s more just the way she made me feel, ya know?  Like I remember her scooping me up, kissing my hair.  Dad was gone a lot then, too.  Not as much, but I think she missed him.  I think she was afraid he didn’t love her.”  Dean took a breath.

“I loved her, though.  I’m sure I told her,” Dean said, biting his lip.  It was something he didn’t say out loud, he didn’t even tell Sammy.  His brother knew, though.  He had to know.  “Someone broke in.  Right after Sammy turned one.  Mom heard em’ in Sammy’s room and she just ran in there.  The gunshot woke me up, and my brother crying.  I never saw his face.”

Dean reached a palm up to his face, rubbed at his burning eyes.  When he pulled it back it was damp.  His chest hurt to say the words, but he’d never talked to anyone about this except to answer Sam’s questions when he was old enough to wonder.  Dean really thought Cas should know. 

If he didn’t remember when he got better, Dean would tell him again if he still wanted to hear it.

“Dad tracked that bastard for years, finally got him.  Never got pulled in, though.  Dad said it was an accident, but that bullet was point blank to the back of his head,” Dean spoke through his teeth, staring over at Cas.  God, he was beautiful.  “There isn’t a single part of me that feels sorry for that son of a bitch.”

“Dad was different after that.  He drank a lot, left us alone in ratty motels, or with friends who understood.  He got really angry sometimes.  Sometimes he threw shit, and I got caught in the crossfire.  I don’t blame him, though I know I probably should.  I’m fucked up, I know that.”  Dean ran his fingers through Cas’ hair, watching his eyes for some sign that he might be there with him.  “He’s gotten a lot better, though.  After that last time.”

Dean took a deep breath, feeling less angry with John and more let down.  He felt robbed.

“You wanted to know about that scar on my back… he was drunk again, Sam was off in rehab and Dad was... pissed at me for not taking better care of him.  He just... lost it," Dean explained quietly.  "I got really hurt. He apologized, and then he ran out.  I think that’s most of the reason he’s gone so much now, even though we need him.”  Dean admitted it with difficulty, with a knot lodged in his throat that made it hard to breathe.  “I think he’s scared he’s gunna hurt the people he loves even more, and fuck if I can’t relate to that.”

Dean cupped Cas’ face again, thumbs pressed beneath his eyes.  “I’m not supposed to care this goddamn much,” he told him, his voice ragged, “I just need you to be okay and we can figure everything else out from there.  We can run if we have to, we’ll take care of each other.  You, me, and Sam.  I’m done losing people, man, and I’m not losing you again.” 

Dean leaned in and kissed him.  Cas’ lips were dry, barely moving against his own.  Only to breathe, steady and shallow across Dean’s mouth.

Pulling back, Dean kissed him once more on the bridge of his nose before laying his head across his chest.  He listened to that steady heartbeat.  It kept on, keeping him sane just as much as it was keeping Cas alive.  He lost himself in the rhythm, let it calm him. 

He kept talking to Cas about menial shit.  About the first concert he ever went to – Metallica – and how he’d had to hitchhike back to the motel because he spent all his extra cash on merchandise.  He told Cas about stealing his first skin mag, his first beer.  He told Cas he wasn’t drinking anymore, and that he was sorry he smelled like smoke.

Dean talked until he felt exhausted, until he couldn’t think of anything new to say, though he knew there was more.  He reached down to take Cas’ hand in his own, closing his eyes.  He lay there in silence, listened to him breathe.

Before he fell asleep, he felt Cas’ fingers tighten.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for talk of mental illness and self harm

The more he walked, the further away she seemed.

Castiel followed the sound of her footsteps through the woods, reaching out with steady fingers to touch the branches as he passed.  Leaves jostled free beneath his palm, caught on the breeze before falling to earth.  Flowers took their places, spring blooming with a thick scent that nearly overwhelmed him. 

There was a sense of urgency about it that he couldn’t ignore, though.  Couldn’t push aside.  He needed to get to her.  It’d been so long. 

“This place,” she said, voice soft on the breeze.  “Can you name it?” 

She appeared in a swath of color, lines of paint dragged against the cool blue backdrop.  Twigs caught at her pale skin, splitting red and knitting back together in a seamless flow.  He couldn’t focus.

He felt sick. 

Castiel doubled over, knees in the dirt, a long, pitched drone in his ears.  He blinked, and it was gray walls, needles in his skin.

“Shhh,” she soothed, only inches away.  “Breathe.”

She’d done it a hundred times, always holding him steady when he couldn’t manage it himself.

“Anna,” Castiel said, sucking air between his teeth. "Don't go." He could see the forest again. The trees that surrounded them both seemed further away, the air fuller, more fragrant.   He felt a hand close around his wrist, and he looked up.

She smiled at him, and he held his breath.

“I remember this place.  You told me about it when we were young,” she said, dropping his wrist.  The sensation didn’t ebb with its loss.  “It’s bigger than I imagined.  You used to tell me how crowded the trees were, the way they seemed to hold you in place.” 

Castiel pushed himself up from the ground, ran his fingers through his hair just to feel something. 

“It’s changed,” he said.

“You’ve changed,” she responded calmly, taking a step into the brush.  She felt more solid after that moment, the muscles moving under her pale skin, her big blue eyes wide in wonder.  “Why are you running?  You were never the one to run.”

“That was Gabriel,” Castiel said, the words bitter on his tongue.  “That was you.”

“Do you want an apology?” she asked, turning her head, her hair catching the breeze.  The fine red strands fell in messy waves past her shoulders.  She didn’t look apologetic.  Anna was calm, her eyes open in question, her shoulders still.  She held herself with a weight on her shoulders she’d never carried in life.

“I want to know why.” Castiel said quietly, his voice catching in his throat.  “I thought we meant something to you, but you were as eager to run as he was.  And how it ended…”

“Was I supposed to live with them forever?  Wasn’t I allowed my own life?” she asked, unperturbed by his increasing discomfort. “You found a life outside of it.  It just took you longer to realize that might be something you want.”

“I paid for it,” Castiel said soberly, “I paid for it, and _they_ paid for it.”

“There’s always a price,” she said with a small smile.  “Whether you choose to fight or to stay… there’s always a price.  What are you more willing to give up in the end?”

“Why did it have to be your life?” Castiel asked, unable to keep his voice from wavering.  “I didn’t…”

“You have to let me go.”

“I can’t,” Castiel said.  He never really could.

“Walk with me,” she sighed, taking his hand in hers.  “We have time.”

\--

Sam woke up with his face buried in her hair.

Jess was curled up against his chest, nose cold and pressed to his throat.  Every few seconds she snored softly, sniffling and smacking her lips, little sighs here and there when she readjusted.  Pulling her closer, Sam grinned, running his fingers through those tangled curls.  Then he licked his lips, moving to pull a few strands out of his mouth. 

God, it was everywhere.

“Hey,” he whispered, thumb and forefinger pinched around a lock of her hair.  She stirred, burying her face more thoroughly against his neck.

“Shhhhh, m’sssleeping,” she mumbled.

“I gotta go,” Sam pressed, kissing her forehead.  He heard her sigh.

“No, you can stay.  It’s okay.  I won’t tell anyone.” 

Sam smiled and breathed her in, trailing his fingers from her hair to across her cheek.  They lay there for a few minutes, hands ghosting over each other's skin. Sam leaned in to kiss her and she wrinkled her nose, reaching between them to press her hand over his mouth.

"Nah uh," she mumbled. "Morning breath. Super gross."

Sam grinned into her palm, nipping at her skin before he stuck his tongue out. She tasted like salt.

"Eeewwwww," she groaned, tugging her hand away and wiping it clean on his shirt. Her face was pulled in a frown, eyes squeezed shut. "I changed my mind. I don't think this is working out."

Sam laughed and pulled her closer, nuzzling into her hair.

"Stop being cute I'm trying to be disgusted with you," she warned.

"Impossible," he grinned, kissing her again.

She sighed happily and wrapped an arm around his waist. He closed his eyes and started to drift again before he felt her hand twist into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him gently.

“Did Dean ever get back to you?” she asked, her voice serious.  Sam reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes.

“I dunno, probably not.  Phone’s been silent all night,” he told her quietly.

“Did you sleep?” she asked, tipping her head up to nose at his chin lazily.

“Yeah, I slept.”

“Good,” she said, “You okay?”

“I’ll feel better when this is over,” he muttered, pulling away from her and rolling onto his back.  He blinked up at the ceiling, feeling her wrap an arm around his waist.  They were both silent for a moment, fingers lacing together against his stomach.

“My dad was in the hospital a long time,” she said, moving into him, kissing his ear.  She sighed and yawned, and Sam closed his eyes, let the silent breath wrap them both up. “It’s not the same," Jess finally said.  "I know it’s not the same.  We were ready when things started to go bad.  I mean, as ready as we were ever going to be.  But I don’t know what I would have done if someone hadn’t let us see him.”

Sam looked over at her, frowning.  “What happened to him?” 

“It was cancer,” she said, curling up against him.  Sam wrapped his arm around her shoulders, fingers ghosting over the sleeve of her tee.  Her body shuddered lightly.  “It’s okay.  Mom and I have each other.  We miss him, but we’re just thankful we got to keep him as long as we did.  He’d been sick for a long time.”

“Still,” Sam breathed, “I’m sorry.”  He ran his fingers through her hair, working delicately at the tangles.  “I wish I could remember my mother.  Anything.  I’ve just been living in the aftermath my whole life.”  He turned his head to look at her.  She frowned.

“Sometimes I want to remember less, ya know?  Like… it’s hard for me to do stuff I used to love,” Jess said softly.  “I play music because he taught me how.  Helps me feel closer to him.  It feels familiar, and I love that.  But then it’s hard to do it in front of other people because it just reminds me that he’s not here anymore.  That he can’t be in the audience.”  Jess propped herself on her elbows, and Sam looked up at her.  Her eyes were dark, soft shadows beneath them.  The light from the window caught the edges of her hair.

“It makes me angry, and I hate being angry.  I hate when I think about him and it’s just these bad feelings.  It feels like a waste.”

There was a soft knock on the wall beside Jess’ bedroom door, and they both turned.  Her mother stood in the doorway, a soft smile on her face.  She tugged her robe more tightly around her lithe body.

“Sam, do you need a ride home?” she asked.  Sam nodded and sat up, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah… yes please… that would be great.  I’m staying with some friends.  I can give you directions.”

“That’s fine, I’ll get dressed,” she nodded, turning and walking back down the hall. 

They both listened quietly until the soft patter of footsteps faded to nothing.  Sam tried to give Jess a smile, and she cupped her hand over his own.  “Sorry,” he muttered.

“She understands,” Jess said, squeezing his hand before tossing the covers off their legs.  “Let’s go.”

\--

Cas slept way too much. 

It didn’t sit well with Dean, walking in and finding him breathing soft, lips barely parted, muscles relaxed.  He’d never slept that deeply, never seemed so far away.  Under difference circumstances it would have been a relief.

Dean dragged that chair to the side of the bed, sat with him, talked to him.  Sometimes he slept when he had to until whatever nurse they had on duty came in to wake Cas up.  To make sure he woke up at all.  Make sure he wasn’t getting worse.  Every two hours on the dime he’d see those eyes open, and it would be enough to set his heart racing. 

Cas stayed as quiet as ever. 

Dean tried. Tried to be calm, to keep holding his hand.  He had so many questions. 

The third night when he walked in there was a nurse sitting cross-legged in the chair Dean had come to see as his own.  She glanced up at him, a weird glint of recognition in her dark eyes as she cocked an eyebrow, setting aside her magazine with a deliberate flick of her wrist.  Then, she sat forward, clutching at her ankles and arching her back in a measured stretch.

If someone could _move_ sarcastically, it would be this woman.

“I’ve never seen you before,” Dean said.  “You new?”

“You could say that,” she grinned conspiratorially.  “I’m a little surprised to see you here, Dean.  Thought you and lover boy called it quits.”

Dean went cold, looking down at Cas who was laid back on his pillows, eyes shut.

“Who are you?” Dean asked through clenched teeth, gaze never leaving him.

“I’m a friend,” she said, like it should have been obvious.  “I guess.  Not sure what he’d call me.”

“Your name,” Dean specified, looking up at her.  She pinched her lips together and rolled her eyes.

“The name’s Meg,” she told him, pushing herself up out of the chair and walking forward toward the bed.  She reached down to brush the hair from Cas’ eyes.  Dean felt a surge of jealousy at the motion, an ugly, black emotion.  It was an irrational feeling, but she reached out like she was allowed.  Like it was a common thing.  Dean wanted to keep that for himself.

It was so selfish.

“Who do you work for, Meg?” Dean asked, keeping his tone as calm as he could.  “Why are you dressed like that? You actually a nurse?”  She looked, if it were possible, even more put out by the question.

“I work for myself,” she told him, walking away from Cas to look up at Dean.  “And you’re not the only person Raph would like to get his hands on.  This is protection.”  Meg pinched the fabric of her stolen scrubs between her thumb and forefinger, pulling them away from her body and staring down.  She groaned and rolled her eyes.  “I’m not the enemy.  Believe it or not, I’m actually a little concerned.  How did this happen?”

“His fucking brothers happened,” Dean said.  “What do you know about it?”

“I know he was scared, know he came to us as a last ditch effort,” Meg said, backing up and looking over at Cas with a strange fondness in her expression.  Her lips twitched in a grin.  “He sure as hell didn’t think you’d forgive him.”

“Who is ‘us’?” Dean asked her, ignoring the accusation, holding his hands in tight fists.  He actively tried not to look at Cas.  Kept his eyes on Meg, watched her stare up at him.  She just grinned back knowingly.

“I don’t see the point in keeping secrets,” she said, backing up a step.  “But you should still ask him yourself.  When he’s not ten miles out in la-la land.”  Dean frowned at her.  “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.  He needs help, and you might be the only one who’ll actually give it to him.”

“What about you?” Dean asked bitterly.

“Hey, he was your boyfriend first,” Meg teased, knocking his shoulder as she passed him.  She made it to the door before Dean turned, looking her up and down.

“You comin’ back?” he asked quietly.

“Is it gunna be a problem?”

Dean looked at the floor, shook his head.  At least Cas wouldn’t be alone.

“Yeah, okay, I’m out,” she said, waving her hand in the air. 

Dean watched as she shoved her way out of the room, the door closing behind her with a muffled clunk.  For a while he just stood there, avoided looking at the bed, listening to the sounds that pervaded the space.  A soft click, a whirring drone, the drip of the IV.  Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and turned toward the chair, taking a few more seconds before he moved.

Once he was beside Cas again, it was like something clicked into place.

Dean reached out and touched Cas’ cheek.  It was warm against his icy fingertips.   He traced imaginary lines against his olive skin, cupped his jaw. Cas sniffled in his sleep and Dean grinned, his eyes burning. Cas' hair was a fuckin' mess. He wasn't sure it had been washed, he didn't know what hospitals did with patients who were unresponsive. Sponge baths, probably. Dean wasn't sure Cas would appreciate that if he knew what was going on. Probably squint and frown at them.

"We gotta get you a haircut. You're startin' to look like Sam," Dean said with half a smile. He ran his fingers across his hairline, pushing his limp curls to the side of his forehead. "I dunno, I guess it works. Especially now that it's all business in the back." Dean glanced at the buzzed hair near the base of Cas' neck. The bandage was smaller than the one he'd been wearing the night before.

He wasn’t sure if he imagined it but Cas seemed to relax more at the sound of his voice. 

Dean leaned forward and kissed Cas across the bridge of his nose, brushed his thumb over his sharp cheekbones.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said gruffly.  “It's Dean. I came back.”

\-- 

Castiel was vaguely aware of how much he missed that warmth.  _His_ warmth, or maybe just the shade of it.  It felt imaginary.  

He’d hear Dean’s voice, like the memory of a static heavy radio broadcast.  He couldn’t place it, half of him straining to keep a distance from the sensations, touch and sound, the other half begging for them.  It was hard to let himself reach out for it without falling into fear, confusion.  Pain. 

It was hard to hold onto, but it was there.

Castiel woke with that weight on his chest, laid down on his back in soft green grass.  He rolled over and opened his eyes, the sun warm against his skin, vision adjusting slowly to the light.  His fingers twitched, and he closed them around… _his_ hand. 

The memory of his hand. 

“I always thought it was blind obedience,” Anna said, rolling over to face him.  “That kept you in that house, kept you with our brothers through everything.  Now I think it was something else.”  Castiel tucked his knees up toward his chest, and Anna mirrored him.  They lay pressed together like that, shin to shin.  “I just... couldn’t understand why you didn’t hate them.”

Castiel just stared at her, brow creased.  He ran his thumb along the back of the hand in his grip, soothing a memory.

“Always like you… to see the best in them,” she continued, more to herself than to him.  Castiel narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t misunderstand me.  I despise them,” Castiel told her, venom in his voice.  “They’re still my family, and I think there’s always going to be a part of me that wants to hold onto that.”

“Which is why you didn’t run until it was your only option.”

“I did a lot of things, but I... never ran,” he told her, tightening his grip on that phantom hand.  It gripped him back, desperately.  Something in him ached.

“What is this place, then?” she asked.  “This is you _running_ , Castiel.” 

Suddenly, Castiel was more aware of his surroundings.  The soft rustle of wind, a bee that settled on the knuckle of his free hand.  He breathed in, and it tasted real.  It had to be real. 

He needed it to be.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.  “Why are you here?”  He stared at her for a moment, his lips parted.

He thought about it, then.  He tried.  It came to him in flashes of cold, and fear, and the smell of copper and sweat.  Sticky, running hot across the back of his neck, between his fingers.  Fingers in his hair, breath on his lips.  Castiel struggled to breathe, tried to sit up but his body was paralyzed. 

No. 

Castiel sucked in air.

“No,” he said, and he heard his own voice wavering, dry and cracked.

“Cas?” 

The air was colder now, the grass browning against his skin.  It prickled and bit at him, too harsh. 

“What’s keeping you here?” she asked, pushing herself up on her elbow, facing the dwindling wind.  “You're acting like there’s no fight left in you.”

“Maybe there isn’t.”

“I don’t believe that,” she told him, reaching out and putting a hand against his cheek.  God, he’d prayed for this more times than he could remember.  To see her again, talk to her.  “You mean to tell me there’s nothing left to fight for?”

He wanted to say no, that he’d pushed it all aside.  That he was done.  That it wasn’t worth it to care because every time he tried to protect the people he cared for he just broke them more.  Broke himself.  Maybe he was running, but he didn’t want to stop.

Then he blinked, and there was a flash of green, flecks of gold, red veins.  Those heavy lids were red as he searched his face, and Castiel had to be imagining it, because why would Dean be there?

His head pounded, he felt sick.

Castiel closed his eyes and tried to will back the calm. 

“He loves you, you know,” she told him.  “Isn’t that worth something?”

“He doesn’t,” Castiel told her, blinking back the sunlight.

“You really don’t remember,” she said sadly. 

Castiel looked at her, the space behind her shoulders wavering like air in the heat, right at the edge of the horizon.  The world distorted around it, cold blues and vibrant oranges.  He could lose himself in the eddy of color, but he could lose her, too.  He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost her again.

“You will,” she told him.

\--

Dean pressed his forehead against Cas’ shoulder as he drifted in and out of sleep.  Cas had spoken earlier, a single pinched syllable, his voice soft and worn, like it was an effort to make any sound at all.  His hand was still clutching at Dean’s, their fingers laced together, warm sweat between their palms. 

Dean woke every few minutes to press his lips against Cas’ bare arm, asking the same question.  Over and over.

“You with me?”

The answer was always the same.

He fell back asleep after the nurse came in to check on Cas again, a wide-hipped Latina woman who regarded Dean with an air of distinct mistrust.  She never asked him to leave, though, and that was all Dean gave a shit about anyway.  He sank into darkness, the warmth of Cas’ body pressing against him at the proximity.  He didn’t dream, but the sounds of the room fell away, and he managed some actual rest.

Dean was so deeply asleep he must have missed the door opening, because he woke with a start to an unfamiliar voice. 

“Hey, kiddo,” the man said quietly.  Dean looked up.  A skinny, short guy, probably in his late twenties, stood there looking down at Cas from the opposite side of the bed.  The stranger reached out and laid his hand across Cas’ forehead, and grinned.  He had a smarmy sort of smirk that reminded Dean of used car salesmen.  “These idiots don’t know what the hell is going on, do they?”

Dean sat up straight, watching the guy for a few seconds.

“Who are you?” Dean asked, voice rough and sleep drunk.  The man looked over at him, and then down at Dean and Cas’ entwined hands.  He arched an eyebrow.

“I should be asking you the same question,” he said, that grin widening.  “Because unless Raphael’s started adopting doe-eyed teenagers in the past couple years… you aren’t related to him.”  He tapped Cas’ temple under his thumb, and Dean frowned, squeezing Cas’ hand tighter.  “I’m gunna go out on a limb here and guess my big brother’s not too fond of this lifetime movie romance.”

Dean felt himself go cold, his muscles rigid.  “What do you mean ‘brother’?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” the man grinned.  His eyes glinted a tawny gold, thin, curved lips pressing into a tight line.

Dean looked over at Cas, his eyes open but distant.  “My name’s Dean,” he told him, licking his own lips.  “Winchester.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the man muttered.  “A thousand horny teenagers in a forty mile radius and Cassie had to get involved with a fucking Winchester.  No wonder my brother’s pissed.”  He sighed over-dramatically.  “I’ve gone by a lot of names, but Gabe… Gabriel Novak’s the name my _father_ gave me.  I’m Castiel’s brother.”  Gabriel let his hand slip away from Cas’ forehead, limp curls falling back against his skin.

Dean stared up at him, wracking his brain trying to remember if Cas had ever mentioned that name.

“Haven’t been home in a while,” Gabriel continued enigmatically.

“I gotta tell you, man, I am out of fucks to give about you and your shitty family,” Dean growled, leaning in toward Cas protectively.  It was obvious enough that Gabriel noticed.  He laughed scathingly as he stepped to the side.

“How about your brother, hm?” Gabriel teased darkly.  “How’s he doin’?  I hear smack’s one _hell_ of a drug.”  Dean looked away from him, and Gabriel laughed.  “Why do you think I left?  I’m sure you noticed my brother is a great big bag of dicks,” Gabriel said, rolling his eyes.  “I thought about not comin’ at all, took me long enough to shake him the first time.”

“You’re a dick,” Dean said through his teeth.

“Never claimed to be anything else, Dean-o,” he replied, gesturing pointedly with his hands.  “I came, didn’t I?”

“Brother of the fuckin’ year,” Dean muttered.  “If you’ve been hiding how the hell did you know he was here?  How do you know about any of it?” Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, sharp as they stared back at Dean’s.  He grinned dangerously.

“Raphael’s not the only one in this family with connections.”

Dean sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  He took a deep breath, trying to swallow how nervous he felt.  When he looked back at Cas, it only got worse.

“What did you mean earlier, when you said they don’t know what's going on?” Dean asked, keeping his eyes on Cas.  He kept trying to meet his gaze like if he wanted it badly enough Cas would look back.  “What the hell is wrong with him?” 

Gabriel sighed, and Dean turned his head to look at him.

“Has he told you anything about what he's going through?” Gabriel asked quietly, his voice low and serious for the first time since he’d come in.  “I know the answer already.  I don’t even know why I’m asking.”

“What?”

“He’s gunna kill me,” Gabriel sighed dramatically.  “Like, on top of everything else he’s probably pissed at me over.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean asked, his mouth going dry.  He closed his other hand over Cas’, effectively pinning it between his own.  He soothed the skin, ran a thumb over his knuckles.

“Look, gunna be blunt here. I don't even know everything... you should really talk to him. Kinda impossible right now, obviously. Thing is... this isn’t the first time he’s done this,” Gabriel said.

Dean sucked in a breath during the pause.

“You gunna explain?” Dean finally asked, nerves eating away at him.  Gabriel’s eyebrows pinched in a frown, glaring over at him.

“This is a fun story. The whole thing started when he was eight.  We didn’t know what was wrong for way too long.  He’d just lose it... he’d start sobbing or hyperventilating.  When we asked him what was going on he just said he felt like he was dying.”  Gabriel paced backward, eyeing the IV and the bare walls with disgust.

“Kid was having panic attacks, severe anxiety, which was I guess pretty cut and dry.  But he was a kid, right?  He couldn’t process what was goin' and so he lashed out.  Mostly at himself, like I remember one time… shit, one time when he was like… I dunno nine or so… we went into his bedroom and he’d carved up part of his leg with the screw of a knob that fell off his dresser.”

“Fuck,” Dean whispered, his chest tight.

“Yeah, I know, right?”  Gabriel said, reaching up to run a hand through his dirty blonde hair.  “God, this is complicated to explain, but you know Uriel and Raph aren’t blood related, right?  Our mother died when Cassie here was pretty young, he hardly remembers her at all.  After that there was this woman, she… came out of a bad relationship, abusive dick of a husband.  Our dad took her and her kids in, adopted them.” Gabriel grinned, staring at the back wall.  “Cas and Anna were _so excited_ to have new brothers."

Dean felt cold, angry. 

“Their mother was messed up, though.  Really skittish and really depressed.  She couldn’t handle Cas’ episodes, and Raphael would get so fucking mad at him.”  Gabriel balled his hands into fists, and Dean held on tighter to Cas’ hand.  “I don’t think Raph understood his mother’s condition much less Cas’.  He just wanted them both to be okay, but he really, _really_ didn’t know how to deal with it.  The shit he said to him…” Gabriel glanced down at Cas.

“So their mother eventually packed up and blew outta town.  Not because of Cas, she just couldn’t handle any of it."

Dean stared at Cas’ hand, pressed between his own.  He had long fingers, his veins pushed out against his tanned skin.  They twitched against him, like he was trying to hold on.

“Cas just kept getting worse. I mean I think he tried to stop but he didn't know how.  He’d barely sleep… after a while he just started shutting down between episodes, he’d zone out, sometimes he wouldn’t talk or move for hours… a few really bad times it was days and we’d have to take him to a hospital.  He just got caught up in his own head… told Anna more about it than me.  I was… ya know, wrapped up in my own shit.  I was in college.”  Gabriel frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Dad brought him to a couple different psyches, put him on a few low grade meds that didn’t really help except to make him sick.  None of them could really decide what was actually wrong with him, even though it should have been obvious.  They were so convinced it was more than just anxiety, but I never thought that. Cas was just dealing the only way he could manage.  The last psych... this woman Naomi, she put Cas on a fucking cocktail of drugs.  The attacks stopped... and he was sleeping... but Cassie wasn’t himself anymore.”

Dean bit his lip, and looked at Cas’ face.  He brushed the dark curls away from his forehead with his fingertips, pushing the hair in front of his ears back, flat against his head.  He let his thumbs press against his temple, Cas’ eyes fluttering shut, lips parted in a soft breath.

“That woman wouldn’t listen to anyone.  I think she was trying to help but damn she was pigheaded about it.  Said it was for the best, said it was necessary.  My father had reservations, but he was worried that Cas would hurt himself again, so we just kept on.  Cas had very few lucid moments for around about a year, and finally I think he wised up and started hiding the pills under his tongue or something because slowly he got back to normal.  Normal enough that he finally told dad that he was done, that he was okay.”

Dean looked up at him and Gabriel had his palm clasped over the back of his neck, staring down at his brother.

“He lost a year to those drugs, he barely remembers anything during that time.  Better to just… cope I guess, then try and live like that.  And my dad really, _really_ wanted him to be telling the truth, that he was actually alright.”  Gabriel sighed and rolled his eyes. 

“He had ‘minor’ incidents after that, but it was mostly just the insomnia.  I think he just dealt with it on his own.  We all got a fucking wake-up call when Dad disappeared, though, and Cas had a full on breakdown.  Anna was the only one I think really knew what he was dealing with, those two were close.  Truth was Cassie just got really good at pretending.”

“So, what?  Nothing changed he just kept on like that?” Dean asked, his chest tight.  “He didn’t talk to anyone or try to find a new doctor?”

“Between all the times when he’d just shut off, nearly losing himself to psychiatric drugs, and the ridiculously insensitive way most of our family dealt with him, can you _blame_ him for keeping it under wraps?”

Dean took a deep, shaking breath.  “Fuck, I didn’t know he was so…”

“What?  Fragile?”  Gabriel snarled at him.  Dean stared back, his mouth half open.  “Castiel is a lot of fucking things, but he’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, and people saying shit like that is the reason he feels like he’s gotta lie.”

“Alone.  Alone was what I was gunna say.” Dean said through his teeth.  “I was right there and I had no fucking idea.”

“He didn’t want you to know.”

“So when the hell did you leave, then?” Dean asked, winding his fingers into Cas’ hair.

“Few months after we realized Dad wasn’t coming back.” Gabriel said quietly, staring Dean straight in the eyes, his expression dangerous.

“God, you really are a dick.”

“Yeah, I don’t know who you’re actually trying to convince, because I’m very well aware of that fact.  Thanks.” 

They glared at each other for a moment before Dean just closed his eyes, trying to focus.  Trying not to let everything just weigh him down.

“So, what, this… him not talking now… that’s all Cas?  Shutting off cause he’s hurting and doesn’t know what else to do?”

“I don’t know.  But yeah, that’s what I think.  Still… he usually doesn’t stay out this long.”  Gabriel paced around to the end of the bed, bracing his hands on the plastic railing.  “I’m gunna wring Zachariah’s fat neck for this either way.  What a miserable little shit.”

“Yeah,” Dean choked, half a smile. “We can agree on that.”

Dean stood up from the chair, extracting his hand from Cas’ with difficulty.  It was stiff and cold when the open air hit it.  Cas’ brow creased for a moment at the loss.  Dean moved toward Gabriel with his arms crossed in front of his chest.  He was shaking with exhaustion, but his mind was reeling. 

“I’m gunna just assume you’re avoiding the rest of the douche brigade,” Dean said.  “Whatever, just, I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“Wow.  I sure do appreciate the charity.  Not like I’m the one in here against the rules or anything,” Gabriel teased with a smarmy, humorless grin.

“Fuck you,” Dean said, his voice low.

Gabriel just tsked at him under his breath, but then he nodded, conceding.  “So you’ll stick with him, knowing what you know now?”

“I don’t abandon my family,” Dean said quietly.  “Unlike some people.”

“You wound me. Deep," Gabriel said, clutching at his chest.  "I can almost feel my shriveled up little heart beginning to beat with new life.”   

“Right,” Dean said, shutting his eyes and scrubbing at his face.  He stood there for a second before taking a step toward the door.  Fuck.  “So, there’s nothing we can do for him?  Just wait and see if he can pull himself out of it?” Dean asked, feeling desperate.

“Anna used to be able to help,” Gabriel said.  Dean listened as Gabriel rounded the bed, the chair creaking softly as he sat down.

“Yeah,” Dean breathed.  “Great.”

He let himself out without another word.

\--

Dean’s fingers gripped at the porcelain sink. The cold bit against his skin, raised in small bumps. He saw himself in the mirror when he raised his head, his lips pressed together.

He threw his fist forward, and his reflection shattered.

There was a loud thump from across the apartment, and Dean stared around the room, counting the tiles on the walls, his fingers twitching.  There was glass embedded in his knuckle.  Slowly he picked it out, tossed it in the trash.  The mirror lay in scattered pieces in the sink, around Dean’s bare feet on the floor.  Dean flexed his hand and stripes of blood colored the skin a deep red. 

“Dean, what the fuck?”

He turned to see Sam standing in the doorway, his eyes wide, dark circles beneath them.  Dean clenched his fist, reveled in the pain that wound up his arm.  It throbbed, his fingers trembling. 

“I need gauze,” Dean said simply, in the most nonchalant, conversational tone.  Sam looked down at his hand, and then back up to his face, his expression hardening, jaw set. “I’ll apologize to Ellen about the mess.  I can replace the mirror.”

“I really don’t think –“

“Sam, please,” Dean said with a note of finality.   Then he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, mouth pulled wide as he let out a hollow laugh. “You wanna get breakfast?”

“Dean, what the hell was –” Ellen came into the room behind Sam, staring down at Dean’s hand, the blood dripping to the floor.  “Oh, baby,” she soothed, and Dean just stood there, staring at her as she closed the space.

“I’m fine,” Dean said quietly, “It’s fine. I’m sorry, I’ll pick it up.”

“Shhh, we’ll worry about it later.  How long’s it been since you ate?” Dean felt her hands on his shoulders, looking down at the woman who’d been more a parent to him than his father had ever been.  He felt on the edge of tears, so he squeezed his hand into a fist, let the pain wash over him.  “Dean.”

“Had a burger,” he said.  She frowned at him.

“Dean, we had burgers two days ago,” Sam cut in quietly.

“Come on," Ellen said gently, turning to look at Sam. "Sam can you get breakfast started?  I have ingredients for omelets in the fridge." Dean watched Sam nodding back at her, turning to leave the bathroom.  Ellen wrapped her arm around his shoulders and led them both out, carefully avoiding the glass on the floor.

Ellen sat him on the couch, turning while Dean watched behind her.  She came back a minute later with a first aid kit, and sat herself next to him on the couch.  Dean dozed off while she cleaned and wrapped the cut, opening his eyes once he felt her run a thumb over his knuckles.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” she asked gently, holding his injured hand delicately between her own.  Dean sighed softly and looked away, toward the window.  “Stubborn as always.”

Suddenly there were arms around his shoulders, Ellen pulling her against his chest and running a hand through his hair.  He took a deep breath, tried not to think, just to relax.  He focused on everything he could but that fear, that disappointment.  Tried not to think about everything he’d just let fall apart. All the ways he'd fucked up, been blind.

“I know what you’re thinkin’, and you’re wrong,” Ellen said softly, rubbing his back like he was a five year old with a stomach ache.  “This isn’t your fault, none of it is.”

Dean wanted to argue with her, but she just hugged him tighter, and he couldn’t.

“Your daddy made you grow up too fast, made you feel responsible for Sam when you weren’t old enough to be responsible for yourself.  Now you’re thinking that every time someone you love gets hurt it’s you who should have known better.  That you should have been the one to stop it.”  She took a deep breath, and Dean closed his eyes.  “Bad stuff happens, baby.  That’s life.”

“Yeah. Feels like all the bad stuff just happens to us,” Dean said quietly.  He wrapped his arms around Ellen’s waist, buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“I know, but it’ll get better,” She soothed, squeezing him back, “I promise.”

Ellen left him on the couch to help Sam in the kitchen, and Dean closed his eyes.  He felt exhausted. He eventually fell asleep to the smell of peppers and the sound of a sizzling skillet, knees tucked up against his waist.  

When Dean woke up there was a body pressed up against his, a head propped on his shoulder.  It was warm, and it made him feel at home.  Made him feel safe.  He looked over and saw Jo beside him, her eyes closed and humming softly to herself. 

"Hey," Dean said gently.  Jo stirred, pressing her nose against his arm before looking up at him.

"Hey, yourself," she grinned.  "I've got a bone to pick with you."

"Oh?" Dean asked, sitting up a little straighter on the couch, Jo moving with him.

"Yeah, so, I'm gunna need you to stop beating up my best friend, alright?" she told him emphatically, digging her chin into the soft meat of his shoulder. "He's got enough going on."

"What if he deserves it?" Dean asked quietly, watching her eyes soften, her lips pulled into a frown.  He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest.  

She cuddled up to him, warm and fitting in his arms.

"That's bullshit," she said.  "And you're outvoted anyway, because me, Mom and Sam think he's pretty amazing."

Dean smiled, his chest tight as he rubbed her shoulder.  He wasn't sure what he'd ever done to deserve these people.

"Well, I know from experience I'm not gunna win in an argument against the three of you," Dean grinned.

"Damn straight you won't," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist and giving him a tight squeeze.  "So... you and Cas were totally dating, right?"

Dean snorted despite himself, rolling his eyes and pushing her away from him.  She had a gigantic smile on her face.

"Ah-hah!  I knew hot wings had a thing for you.  He was making bedroom eyes at you the whole time we were hanging out."  

Dean buried his face in his palm, groaning and trying to extricate the Jo-shaped barnacle that was attached to his waist.  "Dude's always got bedroom eyes," he muttered, feeling his face flush hot.  She laughed and kissed his shoulder, nuzzling against the soft fabric of his Henley.  Sam walked into the room, then, grinning at them both with a platter of runny looking omelets in his hands.  

"Dude, are those fully cooked?" Dean asked, pushing himself up off the couch and walking toward his brother.  Sam frowned at him and poked one of them with his finger.  A viscous yellow fluid ran out of it.  Dean shuddered.

"Yes," Sam said seriously, "And you're gunna eat every bite."

"The fuck I am."

"Payback!" Jo called out from the couch.  "You broke my fucking mirror."

"Joanna Beth!" Ellen called out from kitchen.  "You watch that mouth when you're in my house!"

"Fuuuuuuuu-" Jo started, Dean turning around to throw himself at her, tackling her against the cushions.  They wrestled for a moment before Dean pinned her down, laying his weight across her stomach.  "-ck," she finished meekly, raising her leg to knee Dean in the side.  He grunted and rolled to the floor.  Instead of getting up, he just lay there for a while, face down against the carpet.  

He felt the ache in his injured hand, running up his arm, clenching his fist tighter. It made his chest hurt, but he tried to ignore it.  He'd be okay.

"I think Jo killed Dean," Sam announced.  There was a brief clatter of metal from the kitchen before he heard Ellen stomp into the room, Jo laughing.

"Well that's a damn shame," Ellen sighed.  "Roll him out, it's time to eat."

Dean didn't move, listening to footsteps along the carpeted floor.  Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You okay?" Jo asked.

Dean groaned noncommittally.

"You're gunna try again with Cas, right?"

"Never gunna stop trying," Dean replied.

\--

The hospital was still done up for Christmas even though it had passed, lights surrounding the entryways, garland pinned above the doors.  Dean eyed them as he walked by, nodding at the night shift nurses and making his way toward Cas’ room. 

When he walked in it was quiet as always, Cas propped up against his pillows, eyes mostly shut.  Dean scrubbed his uninjured hand over his face and bypassed the chair he usually sat in, heading over and sitting himself at the edge of the bed.

Dean reached out and ran his fingers through Cas’ hair, petted his face warmly before he bowed over.  He slotted their chests together, set his arms on either side of Cas’ waist.  He kissed his neck.

“You with me?” Dean asked against his skin.

There wasn’t a response.

Dean balled his hand into a fist and the gash across his knuckles burned, skin splitting. 

“Please, I’m begging you, man.  You gotta pull yourself outta this,” he said, harsh but quiet.  His voice was broken.  He wanted to shake Cas, and God knows he might have if he was just a little more worn, a little more deprived of sleep.  It was a very bad idea, but he felt like he was running out of options.

Dean pulled back, stared at the bandage on the back of Cas’ neck, and took a deep breath.

Fuck, he really wanted a drink.

He pushed himself up, paced across the room to the tiny window, and stared out at the parking garage and the little pinpricks of light across the concrete walls.  He sucked in air through his teeth, clenched together like he wanted them to shatter.  His jaw twitched beneath his skin, and he moved back toward the bed.

“Cas,” he said.

Nothing. 

“Cas.  Look at me, damnit!”  he half shouted, leaning down and grasping Cas’ shoulders under his hands.  Pain shot up his arm.  “Castiel!”

He heard the door open, and he let out a breath, the grip on Cas’ shoulders going slack.  “Dean, look at me,” he heard Pam’s voice a few feet away, heard her sneakers scuffing against the floor.  Dean couldn’t look away from Cas.  “Dean.”

Dean just kept staring down at him, his eyes bleary.

 “What?” he asked through his teeth.

“What happened to your hand?  You’re bleeding through your bandages.”

“Put my fist through my bathroom mirror,” Dean said, soothing Cas’ shoulders under his thumbs before he pulled away from him.  He looked over at his injured hand, a stripe of red blooming beneath the gauze. 

“C’mon, let’s get outta here for a few minutes.  Don’t think he’d appreciate you bleeding all over him.”

“Gunna charge me for the time?” Dean joked thinly.

“Yeah, twenty for the antiseptic and the gauze, and another two hundred for having to deal with your petulant ass.”

Dean snorted and ran his good hand through his hair, feeling closer to tears than he had a few seconds ago.  Pam walked over to him a placed a hand on his shoulder, and Dean went with her willingly. 

Soon he was sitting across from Pam on an uncomfortable chair in the middle of the hall, his hand in hers as she removed the bandages.  She frowned down at the wound, bending his fingers manually one at a time.  Dean hissed in pain.

“You probably need stitches,” she said, her tone slightly annoyed.  “Maybe just two. Are you sure you got all the glass out?”

“It’s fine, and I’m not getting stitches.  I don’t have the fuckin’ money for that.”

“You having any trouble with mobility?  Any stiffness?”

“It’s fine, Pam,” Dean huffed, glaring up at her.  She cocked an eyebrow and pressed her thumb against the wound, and hot pain shot up his arm.  Dean jerked his hand away.  “The _hell_ was that for?” he snapped, rubbing his palm between his thumb and forefinger, his fingers throbbing.

“For being a dumb shit.  You think acting like this is gunna help him?”

“Nothing else is helping,” Dean said quietly.  “I need a fucking cigarette.  I need a drink.”

“No, you need to be in there with him,” Pam sighed, taking his hand and beginning to clean the wound.  It burned when she started dabbing at it with an antiseptic soaked cotton ball.

“I’m not exactly good for him right now, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I think you care about him, and that’s what he needs,” she said quietly.  “You know him pretty well, right?  There are other ways to get through to people than blunt force.”

“That’s the problem.  I apparently don’t know shit about what he’s going through.”  Dean took a deep breath, thought back to every time Cas sat rigid next to him, every time he couldn’t sleep.  Every time he sang to himself.  Dean clenched his jaw, and shut his eyes.

“You’re going back.” Pam said.  It wasn’t a question.  She didn’t look up at him, maneuvering Dean’s hand to wrap gauze around his knuckles.

Dean just nodded, staring at the floor.

Pam finished a few minutes later, and Dean gave her a half-assed thanks before walking back to Cas’ room.  The door shut behind him, and Dean swallowed his nerves, walking until he had his knees pressed to the end of the bed.

“Hey, man,” he started.  “I uh… I really don’t understand what’s wrong.  I don’t know what you’re dealing with, what you’ve been dealing with this whole time.  I don’t know what you need me to do or be right now.”  Dean took a deep breath, his eyes burning as he rounded the bed to sit beside him.  He laced their fingers together.  “You’re here right in front of me and I can’t fucking get to you and it’s killing me.”

Dean set his jaw, searched Cas’ face, his tired blue eyes, his sharp nose, his soft mouth. 

“I don’t remember the words,” he choked, reaching up to rub the tears from his eyes before they had a chance to fall.  “That song you used to sing.  That was your favorite right?”  Dean let out a hollow laugh, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “I should know it.  I should’ve paid more attention.”

Dean squeezed Cas’ hand, and he felt Cas’ thumb brush over his own. The only point of real contact between them.

He leaned over Cas, humming the first few lines of a song that colored memories of his childhood.  His mother’s voice soft and sweet as she rocked him in her arms.  He thought about the way Cas looked when he sang to himself, sat on the low wall at school with bandages on his knuckles, his muscles lax.  He remembered the way he smiled in his kitchen, the way he soothed himself while Dean curled up beside him in bed.

Dean kissed Cas’ warm neck.

“My mom used to sing this Beatles song when I was little,” Dean smiled.  “It’s the only one I know by heart.  You make fun of me I swear to God.  I’m really… really shit at this.”  Dean couldn’t look at Cas, so he looked at the sheets instead, traced the folds with his eyes.  His face burned, his chest tightened.  He hummed again, wordlessly. 

This had to help.  Dean needed it to help

“ _Hey, Jude…”_ he started, quietly.  His voice cut through the silence.

 _“Don’t make it bad.  Take a sad song and make it better._ ”

Dean sang softly.  His voice cracked, off tune.  Desperate.

“ _Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better…_ ”

Softer.

“ _Hey, Jude, don’t be afraid.  You were made to go out and get her…_ ”

Dean finally looked up, watched Cas’ eyes, searching Cas’ face for any sign that he could hear him.  He kept singing.

“ _The minute you let her under your skin, then you begin to make it better…_ ”

\--

“What’s wrong?” Anna asked him.  Castiel blinked, straightening his back, tightening his fists.

The forest pulsed behind her, leaves jostled from the trees, brush trembling against the sodden earth.  He felt the ache, in the back of his head, down his spine.  He felt that tightness in his chest that preceded an attack, that shortness of breath.  The ground shuddered beneath his feet, and he thought he might be sick.

He couldn’t hang onto it.  He was starting to think maybe he shouldn’t.

“Castiel, look at me,” Anna pressed, moving forward, her hands on his shoulders.  It felt altogether too real, and he winced, heard a voice he had to be imagining.  It was off key, worn, an aching, pervasive, scraping noise.  It felt whole and warm when it pressed against his ear. 

A song.

_Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders…_

“What do I do?” Castiel asked, the trees graying and blending together.  Anna blinked, and her eyes were green.  Bright and rimmed in red, staring into his like they could see the core of him.

“I can’t tell you that.  This is all you, Castiel.  This place… me,” she paused, and Castiel’s head throbbed.  Dean’s voice cut through the fog, far away but reachable.  It was so familiar.

“You’re not real,” Castiel said, licking his lips, blinking and watching the world fall away like a hand raked over a fresh coat of paint.  His head pounded again, but he stared through it, watched Anna’s lips turn up.  “I missed you so much.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“I know.”

Castiel shuddered, reached out and pulled Anna close, pressed their foreheads together.  “I never even got to say goodbye.  I couldn’t even pull myself out of it long enough to properly mourn you.”

“I know,” she whispered.  “It’s time to move on.”

“Yeah,” Castiel laughed, tears pricking at his eyes.  “Yeah, alright.”  He pulled back, and she bowed her head.  He kissed her temple, breathing her in.  One last time.  “I love you,” he said, smiling against her skin.

“I know.”

Castiel closed his eyes, breathing hard, forcing himself not to run from the pain, his voice.  He moved toward it like a beacon, wrapped it around himself like a lifeline.  The last of the leaves fell at his feet, thinning to white.  He was gripping at air; he was gripping at nothing, reaching out and finding open space. 

Castiel opened his eyes.

The first thing he felt was nausea.  He sat forward, clutching at his chest with his free hand.  The vertigo hit him in a wave, and he blinked again, edges of his vision dark, spots of light blooming behind his eyelids.

“Cas?” he heard a voice say, pinched and broken.  He felt a tug on the back of his free hand, and he looked down.  There was a needle shoved into the vein, attached to a tube dripping a clear, yellowing liquid straight into his bloodstream.  There was a pressure behind his eyes that made him whimper, the room spinning and splitting  as he blinked again.  “Cas, baby, you with me?”

“Shhh,” he hissed, tugging his other hand away and reaching over to pull the needle out. 

“No, fuck, Cas stop it!” Dean pleaded, his voice angry and scared.  Castiel felt hands around his wrists, and he tugged back feebly.  He was imagining it. This was just an extension of his fantasy because that voice in this room didn’t make any sense.  None of it made sense and it made his blood boil, teeth set on edge. 

He almost threw a punch at the body in front of him. 

“Cas, please,” Dean begged, a sob caught in his throat.  “Fuck, just calm down please.  Please.”

“Where…?” he rasped, his throat dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.  It felt like he was speaking through cotton shoved down his throat.  “What happened, where the hell am I?”

“Hospital,” Dean choked.  “You got into a fight and you got hurt.  You’ve been out for a week and a half,” Castiel blinked, and the room seemed to stop spinning.  He felt like he was about to puke and so he swallowed, taking deep breaths.

“Why are you here, you’re not supposed to be here,” Castiel said, staring down at the sheets, his heart beating a mile a minute.  “You can’t be here.  You’re not…”  It wasn’t real, he had to pull himself out of it.  He felt panic tugging at him, ripping at his throat, constricting his lungs.  “I don’t know what’s real.”

“Cas, please look at me,” Dean said, and Castiel heard a real sob, the hands around his wrists shaking.  He looked up and saw Dean leaning over him, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw clenched.

He was crying.

Castiel pushed himself forward against Dean’s chest, buried his face in his neck.  Dean let go of his wrists so Castiel could wrap his arms around his waist, feeling the weight of Dean’s arms circling his shoulders.  It took him a moment to realize how hard his own limbs were trembling.  His fingers gripped against the thin cotton of Dean’s Henley, dug crescent shapes into his skin.

Dean’s hand wound into his hair, lips pressed against his throbbing temple.

If this was a dream, he didn’t want to wake up. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for vivid description of throwing up

For a while, it was all waiting.

The nurse had come in an hour earlier, shone a light in Cas’ eyes, asked him a sequence of questions.  Cas had managed to answer all of them, albeit a little tersely.  He was agitated, and the light made him go pale so the nurse had shut it off after a short time.  Dean eventually had to leave so the nurse could remove the catheter, sitting up against the wall outside his hospital room, waiting.  

Pam walked by twenty minutes later and dropped off a black coffee in a small paper cup, Dean thanking her with a wave.  She smiled at him, and he smiled back, tired but genuine. ~~~~

When the nurse finally came out of Cas’ room, she looked down at him and nodded.

“He might be in the bathroom a while, but you can go back in.  Try to keep your voice down, noise and light are a little nauseating for him right now.” She took a breath, parting her thick, dark lips as she stared at the half open door, light from the hall streaming into the hospital room.  “He’s having a bit of trouble walking, too, but he should be fine if he moves slow.  I don’t feel right leavin’ him in there alone if he’s not in bed.  How long you expectin’ to be here?”

“Long as he wants me to be,” Dean answered truthfully.

“Good answer,” she said, watching as he pushed himself up.  He rubbed at his temple with two shaking fingers.

Dean turned back into the room, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could.  Directly to his right was the small bathroom, door shut, no immediate noise coming from inside.  Dean pressed his forehead against the wood and listened.  In the silence he could hear Cas breathing and shuffling against the linoleum floors.

After a few quiet minutes there was a heavy slap, and then a wet, sick noise, a hacking cough.  Dean didn’t miss a beat, opening the bathroom door to find Cas kneeling down in front of the toilet, fingers trembling and gripping at the porcelain lid.  There was a thin sheen of sweat on his bare arms.  

His body heaved forward dryly a few times before he started coughing again, the wet sound of bile spattering against the bowl.

Dean moved to him wordlessly, sank to his knees beside him.  Cas folded his arm over the toilet seat, his face pallid, resting against it, mouth hanging open toward the basin.  He coughed, spit clinging to his lips, and Dean reached out to run his fingers through his hair, stuck with sweat to his forehead.  His skin was clammy.

“I _despise_ vomiting,” Cas said, voice gritty and low, like there something stuck in the back of his throat.

He started coughing up clear, watery bile, his body straining with the effort of emptying his stomach.  Dean ran his hand through his hair again, holding it back.  There were tears stuck to the edges of his eyes, bloodshot and bugged out.  Dean leaned over, his chest pressed against Cas’ shoulder, massaging his scalp with gentle fingers.  He watched Cas’ eyes fall slowly shut, shoulders sagging.  

“I still don’t understand why you’re here,” Cas said quietly, once he could speak again.  It sounded less like he was perturbed and more like he was afraid of what it meant.  The room smelled like shit, and so Dean reached up and pulled the latch on the toilet, Cas cringing at the loud noise.

“Sorry,” Dean said, smiling despite the pained look on his face.  

Cas turned his head and frowned at him, eyes narrowed.  Dean felt his smile soften, tears burning behind his eyes.  He trailed his hand down to cup Cas’ cheek, thumb tracing along the edge of his mouth.  

“You don’t remember what happened?” Dean asked.  Cas looked away, a pained expression.  “Do you remember anything?”

“Pieces.  I remember talking to Sam…” Cas looked back at him, alarmed.  “Is Sam safe?”

“He’s alright,” Dean said.  “He’s fine.  You made sure of that.”

Cas just stared at him, searching his face.  Dean smiled.  It felt a little torn around the edges.  Cas wouldn’t remember the things he’d confessed in the aftermath, the things Dean had offered up in return.  Dean didn’t know how he felt about that.

“Look, I’m here cause I’m hoping to God we’re not done,” Dean admitted quietly, steadily.  “I’m here cause’ I shouldn’t have let you walk away in the first place.”  Cas’ eyes went wide, balancing himself with one arm on the edge of the toilet.  Dean leaned in closer, needing it, needing him.  “Cas, we gotta talk.”

“Yes,” Cas said quietly. “Okay.”

Dean helped him to his feet, Cas only barely managing to stay up on his own before clutching at his IV pole, staring down at his feet like he didn’t really recognize them.  He was in a pair of thin gray sweatpants, too low on his hips like he’d only just managed to pull them up.  He looked really thin.  Dean wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed that sooner.

Dean placed his hands on Cas’ hips, tugging up at the band of his pants.  Cas didn’t look at him but he moved, pressing his forehead against Dean’s shoulder.  Inhaling, Cas’ breath caught in his throat, fist tightening around the metal pole.

“I missed you,” Cas told him.

Dean closed his eyes as his fingers dug into Cas’ hips, letting go only to circle his arms around his waist until they were pressed together, heartbeat to heartbeat.  His hair tickled at the underside of Dean’s chin, his hands too weak and gripping at his shirt.  He tried to pull him closer.

“Yeah,” Dean murmured into his hair.  “Me too.”

Parting, Cas reached up and touched the pendant around his neck.  It was almost reverent.

“I thought I’d lost it,” he said quietly, his brow furrowed.  

“Found it a couple weeks ago.  I figured it was important to you,” Dean said, staring down as his beautiful hands, grazing the bright metal.

“Anna picked it out for my thirteenth birthday.  She was obsessed with saints and religious lore at the time, and she thought it was appropriate for me.  The patron saint of lost causes,” Cas smiled.  

He turned toward the small sink, glaring at Dean when he moved forward to help.  Dean just laughed and rolled his eyes, leaning back against the wall.  Cas moved carefully, long, sinewy muscles shuddering under his olive skin.  Dean wondered if he’d ever really appreciated how fucking beautiful Cas was.

It was slow going, but Cas managed to clean his mouth out with a small bottle of mouthwash, looking over at Dean once he was done.

“I still have to… uh,” Cas cocked his head very slightly to the side, indicating the toilet.  Dean snorted.

“Yeah, fine, but any weird noises and I’m running back in here, pants around your ankles or not.”

“Fine,” Cas conceded gruffly, his lips twitching in a small grin.  “Get out.”

Dean left him, sitting himself on the edge of the hospital bed with his face pressed against his palms.  He felt a shiver go through his body, listening closely.  He drifted, his eyelids heavy, until he heard the door open, the wheels of Cas’ IV pole rattling against the floor.  

Dean waited until he felt Cas’ body inches from his own, reaching out with unsteady hands to grip at the hem of Cas’ shirt.  Cas inched forward tremulously.  Dean touched his forehead to his stomach, feeling another shiver move through him like a jolt of electricity, his heart hammering a tattoo against his ribcage.  He felt fingers winding into his hair, felt himself shivering against the weight of his own breath.

Dean pressed his nose against the soft cotton, lips brushing the fabric above his naval.

“You okay?” Dean asked, his voice way more broken than he wanted it to be.                     

“No,” Cas answered quietly.  Dean’s grip on his shirt tightened. “Are you?”

“Not really,” Dean replied.  

Cas ran his fingers through his hair until Dean leaned his head up to look at him.  Cas’ head was bowed, brows knit together and eyes shut.  Dean reached up and pressed his thumb in the space between them, smoothing out the lines.  His heart felt tight when Cas let out a breathy laugh.  

“Maybe I’d be okay if my head didn’t feel like it was splitting in half,” Cas murmured.  Dean laughed, brushing a knuckle over his cheek.  He felt warm again.

Moving to the opposite side of the bed, Cas let Dean help him lower himself back against the pillows, tucking his feet under the thin blankets.  Then he reached out, wordlessly pulling Dean against him.  They slotted together, Cas on his back and Dean on his side as he curved in toward his body, head on Cas’ shoulder.  

Their fingers laced together across Cas’ waist.

“What’s going on with you?” Dean finally asked, clutching his hand, running a thumb across his knuckle.

“My brothers –“

“No, Cas,” Dean interrupted.  “Look, I know some shit’s been going down, but right now I couldn’t care less.  What’s going on with _you_?”  He pushed himself up on one elbow so he could look Cas full in the face.  Cas had trouble looking back.  “Listen, this has got to stop, okay?  We’ve gotta fuckin’ talk to each other.”

“I know,” Cas breathed, “What do you want me to say?”

“Your brother came by the other night,” Dean said.  “Gabriel.”

“Gabriel was here?” Cas asked, his eyes going wide.

“Yeah, he was a dick, but he didn’t want to skin me alive so he’s got a leg up on the rest of em’,” Dean said, rolling his eyes.  Cas squeezed his hand, and Dean squeezed back.  

“Look, he told me about some of the stuff you’re going through, the panic attacks… your brothers...  I feel like you’ve got it into your head that I’m either gunna pity you or hate you for it, but that’s bullshit.  Nothin’s gunna change, I just… this thing… it’s not you,” Dean said, staring into Cas’ eyes, hoping he understood.  “It’s something you gotta deal with, and you’re bottling it all up… and I don’t think you’re doin’ too well on your own.”  

Dean tried to smile as Cas looked at him, his expression hard and slightly pleading.

“Please, Cas,” he said.  “Just talk to me.”

Cas took a deep breath, and Dean waited.  Watched him closely, running a thumb soothingly over his knuckles.

“It’s like… I’m on the edge of a cliff, about to fall,” Cas said, his voice raw.  “But I never do, so I’m stuck.  I’m terrified.  And it’s a… _physical_ terror, like hands pressing down on my chest.  Sometimes I think falling would just be a relief.”  He sounded frustrated, his shoulders set like his muscles were pulled taut.  Dean stared at him, frowning.  “It’s always there, just right under the surface.  It’s just… maddening. It’s a voice in my head echoing all my fears back at me when all I want is silence.  It’s why I can’t sleep.”

Cas closed his eyes and took a deep breath, like he could hear it right then.  Like it was screaming at him.

“It’s just noise… all the time,” Cas said quietly.

Dean untwined their hands and reached up to set his palm against the side of Cas’ head, thumb grazing the swell of his cheekbone.  Cas exhaled slowly.

“I was so young when it started, Dean, and I tried, I really tried not to let it get to me.  The panic attacks were bad, they _are_ bad… like my heart is going to burst in my chest.  I just wanted it to stop,” Cas said, his voice hard.  “I should have been able to make it stop.”  He leaned into Dean’s hand as it slid to rest against his neck.  Dean felt his pulse, a frantic flutter against his skin.

“I guess I tried to block it out with physical pain, but that ended… badly.  I eventually just separated myself from it the best I could, but it separated me from everything else, too.  From other people, and from myself.  Sometimes I don't feel part of my own body, sometimes I can't recognize myself in the mirror.  And that's... also terrifying.  Anna always…” Cas smiled a little, “She sang to me when I couldn’t sleep, or when I was coming down from an attack, and it was the only thing that helped and didn’t make me feel like I was losing myself even more.”

“You shut off, Cas,” Dean said quietly.  “You’ve been awake, technically, for days but you wouldn’t talk to anyone, you hardly moved.”

“There was this place,” Cas said, reaching up and covering Dean’s hand with his own.  “This park… more like a forest reserve, really.  I went there a few times as a kid.  I went with all my siblings.  Those were some of the few times I remember us all being happy,” Cas explained, a soft look in his eyes.  

“I made a space for myself in my head.  It helped, but… I just blocked everything else out.”  Cas closed his eyes, his expression pinched.  “I hear… and I feel, but it all just kind of bleeds into this… place.  And I just get so deep I don’t want to come back out again.  It’s easy to forget it’s not real.”

“It’s better than being here, right?” Dean asked quietly, pulling his hand away, trailing down toward his chest.  He felt the rise and fall, Cas’ heart skipping under his fingertips.  Cas winced, trying to lean forward.

“No,” Cas said, tersely, with a strange conviction.  “This is harder, and it hurts, and I’m so… angry, but it’s better.  This is better.”  Dean leaned over, pressed his forehead to Cas’.  “I heard you, I just thought I was imagining that, too.”

“I was so fuckin’ afraid I’d lost you,” Dean said, trying not to feel ashamed at the admission.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas said quietly, his hand clumsy and weak as it wound into his hair.  “For everything I said, for what happened.  I’m sorry.”

Dean let out a husky laugh, feeling Cas’ lips part, his breath warm across his own.  It made him nervous, made his skin burn.  

"Why didn’t you just tell me what was goin’ on with your family, man?” he asked.

“I was scared I wouldn’t be able to protect you.”

“What about you, huh?  Who was gunna make sure you were okay?”  Dean said, turning his head, pressing them together cheek to cheek.  “Stupid, selfish, asshole.”

Cas shuddered, and Dean couldn’t keep himself together anymore.  He kissed the space just beneath his ear, Cas’ breath going ragged as he made his way across jaw.  He pressed his lips against the soft skin of his cheek, nosing at his temple.  Cas made a small, wrecked, whimpering noise in the back of his throat, his hand reaching up to close around his hip, nails raking against the fabric.  Dean felt like every muscle in his body was unraveling.  

Days of unresponsive touches, days of just wanting to hear his voice again.  This was heaven.

\--

Castiel felt like a warzone, his vision going bleary and head pulsing thunderously, but then there was Dean.  Dean touched him, lips brushing over his skin, needy, open and perfect.  Everything else seemed to dull, he hadn’t known how much he’d needed it.

Or he had, but he’d just blocked it out.

Castiel wished he could kiss him, wrap himself around him.  Wanting that back, how easily it had come to them before.  How easy it had been to take it.  

There was a knock on the door, and they parted abruptly.  Light flooded into the room from the hallway, and Dean propped himself up, trying to look around the corner.  A slender, dark-haired nurse walked in, and she grinned at Dean with an unexpected familiarity. 

“Castiel?” she asked.

“Yes,” Castiel answered, closing his eyes against the light.  It made him feel ill.

“I made a call to your brother, told him that you were responsive,” she said, her brow creasing.  Castiel felt the nerves bunching up in his chest, and he put all his strength into holding onto Dean’s hand.  “He’s not coming in tonight,” she continued, gaze flitting down toward Dean.  “I told him you were exhausted and needed more rest.”

Castiel felt Dean’s body relax against him, and Castiel started to relax as well.  He’d have to deal with this eventually, but he was happy to have a few more hours.  A little more peace.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she smiled.  Castiel stared at her, cocking his head a little in confusion.  “Dean told me a lot.”

“Thanks, Pam,” Dean said.  “For everything.” 

She smiled and nodded at them before turning to leave.  Dean turned back toward him and brushed his cheek with the tip of his nose.

“How often were you here?” Castiel asked, staring over at him.

Dean gave him a helpless sort of look before he shrugged, hiding his face as he pressed back against Castiel, getting comfortable again.  Castiel turned his head and placed a kiss into his hair.  His chest felt tight, a nervous weight stuck in his throat.

“Your turn,” Castiel said quietly.

Dean hummed and settled his face in the crook of his neck, lightly grazing his collarbone with his teeth before kissing him again.  Castiel felt a pleasant shiver run through his body.  Dean had always been so dangerously gentle, even torn open, even when he didn’t want to be.  Castiel loved him for that.

“Why’d you come to me?” Castiel asked, his chest tight, his agitation itching at him again.  It swelled, made him dizzy.  “The night we –”

“I know,” Dean said quickly, kissing his neck again.  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“What happened?”

“Everything just, fuck, it just got to me, man,” Dean started, resigned.

Castiel turned his head, lips brushing Dean’s hair.  He waited until Dean’s body seemed to relax, his calloused hand still warm and pressed against his neck.  It was a grounding sensation, pulled Castiel away from the constant aching thrum in his skull.

“My dad showed up after _months_ of radio silence, and then before I knew it he was gone again.  I just… he’s an asshole, but there’s this huge part of me that just wants him to stick around, wants him to _give a shit_ about me.”  Dean’s voice went quiet, hard.  “I’ve got his voice in my head, I’ve only ever tried to do the best I fuckin’ can but I’ve done nothing but screw up.”  

Dean lifted his head, looked Castiel in the eyes.  They were tired, heavy lidded and watery.  

“No one ever sticks around, and as much as I try not to care… in the end the only common factor is me.”

“Dean,” Castiel breathed.

“And there you were and I was so… pissed.  Because, fuck, I wanted you to be the exception.  You weren’t supposed to leave,” Dean said, voice gruff like he was trying very hard not to sound vulnerable.  It somehow made him seem ever more so.  “Our first time sucked, man.”

Castiel grinned thinly, feeling Dean run his knuckles against his neck.

“Was I really that bad?” Castiel asked, trying to keep his voice light.  There was an undercurrent of fear there.  Dean just laughed against his neck, a deep belly laugh that shook the bed, and Castiel frowned over at him.  

“You were better than I deserved, Cas.  That’s not what I meant, alright?”  Dean pushed himself up on his elbow, his palm flat against the nape of Castiel’s neck.  He had a strange look in his eyes, staring back at him, trailing down toward his lips.  

“This isn’t gunna work,” Dean breathed.  

Castiel stared at him, felt fear twisting up in his chest.  He bit the inside of his cheek.  

“No, Cas… I should have kissed you back, I should have done a lot of shit differently.  I shouldn’t have thrown you out.”

Castiel reached up and grabbed at the collar of Dean’s shirt, tugging down weakly.

“You were practically screaming for help, man, and I just –“

“Stop blaming yourself,” Castiel snapped. “Stop thinking this was your fault or that you’re not good enough.  I made my own decisions,” Castiel explained to him angrily.  “I’m not sorry about that night.  I don’t regret a second.”

“Cas –“ Dean said before Castiel pushed himself up, head throbbing.  He shut his eyes against it, pressing his lips to Dean’s.  Clumsily, needy.

“Shut up,” Castiel murmured, kissing him again.

Dean sighed against him, hand closing over his shoulder, grazing it gently with his thumb.  His other hand cupped his jaw, every press of their lips calming him, warming him just a little more.  Dean kissed him lazily, like they had all the time in the world, and all it did was remind Castiel how soon reality was going to run them over again.

Castiel just kissed him harder.

\--

“You’re exhausted,” Castiel said.  

He could feel the way Dean carried himself too heavily, couldn’t quite keep his eyes open.  Dean nosed his cheek before nestling in against his chest, arms tight around his waist.  

“My brother will be here tomorrow,” he said, needing to remind himself that this wasn’t over.  As much as he needed it to be.

“So fucking what?” Dean said sleepily, his eyes lidded.  “Not runnin’ out on you.”

“He’s dangerous,” Castiel said, touching Dean’s face.  He pressed the pad of his finger against a dark freckle at the bridge of his nose, drew a line to the next, and the next.  A constellation of pale marks across his soft cheeks.  Castiel could lose himself in them.

“I don’t care.” Dean responded gruffly, holding him closer.  “We’ll figure something out.”

Castiel winced, pain thrumming behind his eyes.  He had to make Dean understand.  His head pounded, and he tried to bite down the swell of nerves that were clawing their way up his throat.

“Cas?” Dean asked.

“I’m fine,” Castiel murmured.  He shut his eyes, breathed out slowly.

Suddenly, he felt hands at the side of his face, palms covering his ears.  The world dulled.  He opened his eyes and saw Dean there, watching him, an inch of air between them.

“Listen to me,” Dean said, voice soft.  “Do you want to run?  Say the word and we’ll go.  We’ll go get Sam, and we’ll skip town.  We’ll get away.”  Castiel frowned at him, feeling his heart pounding painfully in his chest.  He tried to swallow the fear, the apprehension.  That sensation that he was about to hit the ground.  “If not, I’m staying.  Sam is safe, he’s at a friend’s.  You and me, we’ll face it together.”

Castiel took a deep breath.  Dean held him steady.

“I know what I have to do,” Castiel said, Dean’s hands falling slowly away from his face again.  “You should sleep while you can.”

“What about you?”

“For once, I’m not tired,” Castiel smiled.  “I’ll watch over you.”

Dean rolled his eyes, his ears going a little red before he tucked himself back up against Castiel, one hand resting over his heart.  Castiel closed his hand over it.  Kept it safe.

\--

Castiel let himself drift all night, watching Dean’s eyes twitch under dark lids, watching his mouth part in steady breath.  He’d only been bothered a few times by a nurse who seemed to understand all too easily why there was someone else in his bed after hours.  

He touched the pendant around his neck, sent up a silent prayer.

The last thing Castiel expected to see when he opened his eyes hours later was Meg standing over him with a grin on her face, dressed in pale blue scrubs.  

 “You two get any cuter and I might just throw up in my mouth a little,” she drawled sarcastically.

“Meg,” Castiel said, blinking against the light, his head pounding and stomach turning.  His eyes were narrowed, mouth pulled in a grimace.

“The great and powerful,” she said with an easy grin.  “How’s the head?”

“Shitty,” Castiel said, voice pinched and low.  “How did you know I was here?”

Dean breathed against his neck, his body reacting warmly.  Castiel laced their fingers together.

“Crowley was… _concerned_ … when you didn’t show up last week.  Didn’t take long to figure out what happened,” she said, arching an eyebrow and glancing down toward Dean.  Castiel felt him moving against his side, and he held tight to his hand.  “Prince charming’s finally up and at em’.”

“Mmmph, Cas?  What the hell, what’s going on?”  Dean said, voice thick with sleep, pushing himself up on his elbow.  

"Crowley’s got news for you, if you’re still interested," Meg told him, ignoring Dean.  "He’s got a game plan, already weaseling his way into Raph’s inner circle.  Apparently a few people are eager for a regime change.”

“Woah, wait.  Ain’t Crowley that short poncy guy that tried to sell to Sam?” Dean asked, alarmed.

“Oh, you haven’t talked yet.  Whoops,” Meg grinned, backing up a step.

 “Cas, what did you do?” 

“I was desperate.  I went to Crowley and Meg for help in dealing with my brother.  It’s too late, though, I’m out of time,” Castiel said, pushing himself up in a sitting position.  His head swam, and he hissed in pain, feeling Dean’s hand against the small of his back.  “I need to take care of this now, Meg.”

“Yeah, alright hotshot, but you can hardly sit up on your own.  How exactly do you plan on taking down your big bad brother?” Meg asked, crossing her arms.  

“I don’t care about bringing him down.  I’ve got leverage, I’ve _had_ leverage.  I just need to make sure my brother is very aware of it,” Castiel said, gritting his teeth.  “Can you get me on the phone with Crowley?”

Meg stared at him for a moment, her lips parted slightly.  

“I need to get out,” Castiel explained, irritated and impatient.

“I know,” Meg said, frowning.  “Give me a second.”  She turned toward the door and pulled her cell out of her pocket.  Castiel closed his eyes, trying to force down the nausea.  He didn’t want to puke again.

“Cas,” Dean started.  “What the hell, you’re working with drug dealers now?

“Technically, Meg isn’t a dealer.  She’s a…” Castiel looked up at Meg, and she grinned at him, phone pressed to her ear.

“I’m a lady of the night,” she said, winking.  

Dean went still, and Castiel turned to look at him.

“My brother threatened to have you and Sam killed if I saw you again and, despite the fact that I folded, someone _still_ attacked Sam.  I needed to find a way to stop him, and they offered me a chance,” Castiel said, watching Dean’s expression harden.  

“Yeah,” Dean said, pressing his lips together, avoiding Cas’ eyes.  “Just wish you would have fuckin’ come to us instead.  This is so goddamn messy.”

“I know,” Castiel said, watching Meg approach him with the phone in her hand.  

He turned away from Dean and took it, pressing it against his ear.

“ _Hello, darling,_ ” Crowley purred into the receiver.  “ _Finally awake, I see.  You missed our date._ ”

“I don’t have time for this,” Castiel said, his heart thrumming.  “Do you still have the invoices I gave you?  Do you have all of it?”

“ _What crawled up your arse and died?_ ” he growled.

“Answer the question,” Castiel snapped.

“ _Of course I have them.  Why?_ ” Crowley asked tersely.

“Listen, things have changed.  I need your help.”  There was silence on the other end of the line, so Castiel continued.  “If my brother doesn’t back off, I want it all turned into the police.  Every page.”

“ _You’ve got to be kidding me_ ,” Crowley grumbled.  “ _Why the hell would I –_ “

“Listen to me, you ass.  My own brother nearly killed me because of this situation. I am well past the point of subtlety,” Castiel said, voice hard even as his head started to throb again.  He felt Dean’s hand, still pressed to his back, rubbing small circles.  He didn’t want to lose him again.  This had to end.  “Anything happens to Dean or Sam… or me, I want him to lose everything.  I want it all burned to the ground.  Do you understand?”

“ _Oooo._   _Love it when you take control_ ,” Crowley teased, his voice low and thick.  Then he sighed, and there was a ruffled noise over the line.

“Will you help me or not?” Castiel asked, closing his eyes.

“ _Bollocks_ ,” he cursed.  “ _There’ll be other empires to overthrow.  Do what you have to do._ ”

\--

Dean helped Cas to his feet, hands wrapped around his biceps to keep him steady.  

Cas had to close his eyes once he was upright, wobbling a little on the spot.  Dean reached up, ghosted his fingers across his cheek, down toward his mouth.  Cas’ breath caught, lips parted as Dean pressed his thumb against the soft, pliant skin.  Cas kissed softly against the pad of his thumb.

Dean smiled, tracing a line from his bottom lip to the center of his throat, and then to the pendant that sat against his chest.  He circled the metal, two fingers pressed together like the barrel of a gun.

“Patron saint of lost causes, huh?” Dean said thickly, Cas opening his eyes, staring at his mouth.  “Kinda hopeless sounding.”

“He’s called that because in his New Testament letter, Jude Thaddeus stressed that the faithful should always keep going.  No matter the situation, no matter how bleak,” Cas said, raising his hand and pressing it over Dean’s.  “It reminds me not to give up, no matter how helpless I feel.”

Dean reached up with his free hand, his injured hand, throbbing as he ran it through Cas’ hair.  He pulled him forward gently, nose brushing his cheek.

“I think I forgot that.  I think I just convinced myself I wasn’t running because I hadn’t just left my family,” Cas said, pressing a kiss at the edge of his jaw.  Dean sighed, knowing he’d never get tired of that.  “I’m done, Dean.  I’m not playing this game anymore.”

“Yeah,” he breathed in response.  "I know."  It was all he could say.

Dean kissed him, then, hesitant at first before locking them together, pushing back with too much force.  He didn’t know how this would end, if it would ever really end, but he needed to take what he could.  In all the small spaces they had left.  Cas, still unsure on his feet, pressed back.  He felt Cas’ hands against his neck, cupped against his jaw.  Kissing him breathless.

“Castiel,” a hard voice said behind Dean, his blood running cold.  

He turned to see Raphael, walking slowly toward the bed, gaze set on Dean.  His arms were crossed in front of his chest, expression blank but for the heated look in his dark eyes.  He looked well rested, suited up like he’d taken his time getting ready.  Like this was all very unimportant.

Cas tensed under his hands.        

Before Dean had a chance to say anything, Cas pressed his palm against his chest, moving him out of the way as he took a step forward.  He had to brace himself against the bed, unsteady.  

“Leave now,” Raphael said, voice low and dangerous, watching Dean.  “Or I’ll have you removed.”

“Over my dead fucking body,” Dean snarled back, feeling Cas close a hand around his wrist.  He felt heavy, anger pumping through him, virulent and sharp, needles in his skin.

“Dean,” Cas said, “You should go.”

Turning to Cas, Dean set his jaw, shoulders stiff.

“No, fuck no, I thought we said –“

“Dean, I need to talk to my brother.  Alone.  Please," said Cas.  Dean stared at him, searching his face.  Cas just stared back, trying to straighten himself up.  Fuck, he could hardly stand.  He didn’t want to leave him on his own.  He felt like a shithead for even considering it.   "I have this under control.  Just trust me."

He shut his eyes and sucked in a quick breath, hating himself.

“I’m coming back for you,” Dean told him, pitching his voice down.

“Okay,” Cas said, squeezing his wrist.  

Dean leaned over and kissed him before pulling himself away.  Forcing himself to leave.  He felt Cas staring after him, Dean glaring at Raphael as he passed.  He bit the inside of his cheek when he closed the door behind him, fumbling in his pockets for his cell phone.

He had to take a few steadying breaths before he pulled up his brother’s cell number, hitting the call button and listening impatiently to the dial tone.

“ _Dean?_ _You okay?  You should be back by now, what’s up?_ ” Sam asked, Dean calming at the sound of his brother’s voice.

“I’m coming back soon.  We both are,” Dean said, knocking his head back against the door, trying to hear what was going on inside.  Cas would be fine.  Cas could handle this.  “Let Ellen know, alright?”

“ _He’s awake?_ ” Sam asked a little frantically. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“Yeah, he’s talkin’ and walkin’.  Little wobbly but he’ll muscle through.” Dean smiled.  “You doin’ okay?”

“ _Yeah, Dean.  I’m fine_ ,” Sam laughed.  “ _Bring him home._ “

“Soon as I can.”

\--

Castiel sat back down on the bed.  His brother's lips were pulled in a tight line, watching him from across the room.

“Where are they?” Raphael asked slowly, like he was speaking to a toddler.  Castiel grimaced, shutting his eyes against a swell of dizzy nausea.  His brother had noticed the missing notebooks.  Good, at least he knew where his priorities lay.  That would make this infinitely easier.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Castiel lied through his teeth.  “Be more specific.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Castiel.  You went through my desk.  What did you do with what you found there?” Raphael asked, coming closer.  Castiel looked up at him, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed.  “This is getting ridiculous.  What the hell are you thinking, how many times do I have to tell you _enough_ –”

“Shut up,” Castiel growled, jaw clenched.  “Shut the fuck up and listen to me for once.”

Raphael stared at him, dumbstruck.  His hands twitched, but he didn’t make any move.

“Look at where we are.  Look at me.  Where is Zachariah?  Where is Gabriel, where is Anna?” Castiel asked, fingers tightening on the rough sheets beneath his palms.  “You’ve told me so many times how you did this for _us_ , did this to _keep us all together_.  It’s bullshit.  You have ripped this family to pieces.”

He felt dizzy with anger, his arms shaking but his feet planted firmly on the floor, kept upright only through sheer force of will.  His brother would listen to him.  He would force him to listen.

“Dean and Sam are more my family than you have been since I was a child.  You’ve done nothing but knock me down, and I was too weak to pull myself back up because I fucking believed the shit you fed to me.  I believed there was something broken in me.  But I'm done.  You’re not going to dictate to me how I feel, how I think.”  He took a deep breath.  “You’re not going to make me feel ashamed anymore.  You have cared more for your business than for any of us, and honestly?  I don’t care.  You can keep it.”

“Castiel,” Raphael said, like he wanted to silence him.

“I’m not done,” Castiel snapped, his head pounding, his heart as well.  “I’m not coming home, and you won’t touch Sam or Dean ever again.  I have enough intel to bring down your entire operation.  You touch any of us, and it goes straight to the police.  If you kill me –”

“You think I could do that?” Raphael asked, frowning at him.  Castiel stared back.  “You think I’d send them after you?” he continued, voice hard, every word shot forward like a bullet.  “I was trying to _protect_ you.”

“You were trying to control me,” Castiel corrected calmly.  “If you can’t see what you’ve done… can’t care about what you’ve put our family though… maybe you’ll care enough about keeping the empire you sacrificed it for.”

Raphael crossed his arms in front of his chest, backing up until he was pressed against the wall.  He stared away from Castiel, toward the small window overlooking the parking garage.  He sighed, and Castiel felt himself relaxing.  If only a little.

“There’s nothing I can say,” he said quietly.  “You have tomorrow afternoon to collect your things from the house.  I won’t stop you, but if you leave.  You can’t come back.  You’ll be on your own.”

“I won’t be alone,” Castiel said.  “Not anymore.”

Raphael nodded, frowning.   He reached up and rubbed at his eyes, turning toward the door.  He stood still for a moment, Castiel watching as his clenched and unclenched his fists.

“I am happy,” he said, in a tone of voice Castiel could hardly recognize as belonging to him.  It was too soft, like a memory he’d been clinging to.  One he’d never really been able to let go of.  Their family, together.  “I’m happy that you’re safe,” he finished.  

Castiel held his breath until his brother left, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

\--

The hospital released Cas later that day.  

Dean looked over at him, slumped in the seat beside him, forehead pressed against the cool glass window of the Impala.  There were patches of snow along the medians, speckled with dirt and sand, tire tracks burned into the dark concrete.  He reached over and ran a hand through Cas’ hair, humming softly under his breath.

“They said I’d probably need physical therapy,” Cas said after a few minutes.  “Gave me a few numbers to call, places nearby.  They also included the numbers to a few psychiatric practices.”

Dean lowered his hand to take Cas’, lacing their fingers together.  He felt Cas squeeze him back, a little weakly.  

“You gunna give it a try?” Dean asked, keeping his eyes on the road, taking familiar turns.  

He shouldn’t push him, but damn it if he didn’t want to.  He didn’t want Cas to deal with this shit on his own anymore, and as much as he wanted to help…. he was realizing that maybe it wasn’t his responsibility to shoulder everything, and that maybe Cas didn’t want him to, either.   Dean just didn’t want him to lose touch, didn’t want him to feel so beaten down.

 “I think,” Cas said hesitantly, “I think it’d be a good idea.  Do you?”

Dean let out a slow breath and smiled, a little too wide.  

“Yeah, man.  I think it’s a great idea.”  

He saw Cas nodding out of the corner of his eye, his eyes squeezed shut like he was in pain.  Dean pulled Cas’ hand toward him, leaning over once he was at a stop sign to press a kiss to the heel of his palm.  Cas’ expression softened.

Dean had to help Cas out of the car, an arm around his waist as he led him to the stairwell of Ellen’s apartment complex.  When they got to the foot of the stairs, Cas looked up at them, pursing his lips and squinting, a frown creasing his brow.  Dean had to hold himself back from smiling at the sheer goddamn anger Cas was harboring toward the obstacle.

“Which floor?” Cas asked, gaze training up toward the first landing.  His feet moved unsteadily, and Dean had to grip him tighter.

“Third.”

“So, this is how I die,” Cas sighed.  Dean snorted and turned so he could look Cas full in the face, lips pulled into a grin.  “What are you so happy about?”

“You’re cute,” Dean smiled.

“You’re an asshole,” Cas said, but not with nearly enough heat in his voice for Dean to take him seriously.  

Dean rolled his eyes and turned around, letting go of Cas’ waist in the process.  He heard Cas take hold of the bannister, grunting angrily.  Dean just squatted down in front of him, arms pulled slightly away from his waist.  

“What are you doing?”

“Hop on,” Dean said, rocking a bit on his heels, trying to keep steady.  He felt Cas’ hand on his shoulder.

“You’re insane,” Cas said, a smile evident in his voice.

“I’m not leaving you down here to freeze to death, alright?  So hop on or I’m carrying you bridal style.”

There was a pause before he felt Cas press up against his back, Dean hooking his arms up under his knees while Cas circled his arms around his neck.  The proximity made him feel warm, heart racing.  With a grunt, Dean pushed himself up into a standing position, leaning forward to balance out the weight across his back.  

Cas was lighter than the last time he’d picked him up.  Almost significantly so.

“Alright,” Dean grunted.  “Hold on.”

“This is a very bad idea, Dean,” Cas said, burying his face against Dean’s neck.  Dean smiled, bowing his head to kiss Cas’ arm before taking the first step.  His legs burned at the strain, but he took the next step a little faster, trying to push through it.

“You haven’t been drinking,” Cas said quietly, his arms tightening around Dean’s neck.  Dean took a deep breath, the air thin against his lungs as he stepped up onto the first landing.  Halfway there.  

“No,” Dean said, huffing.  “I told you about that while you were out of it.”

“What else did you tell me?” Cas asked, voice muffled against Dean’s jacket as he turned toward the next stretch of stairs.  Dean readjusted, bouncing a little to pull Cas’ legs more firmly around his waist.  He exhaled when he took the next step.

“Lots of stuff,” Dean said, breathing hard.  He felt a little dizzy, halfway between two stairs as he pulled another shallow, insubstantial breath into his lungs.  “I’ll uh… tell you again… if you wanna listen.  Figure we… spent enough time… hidin’ shit from each other.”

Cas pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, and Dean wanted to let him down, pull them together right there on the stairs.  He wanted Cas so badly it was a physical pain, heat coiling in his stomach.  But they had time, they finally had some time, and Cas wasn’t in any position to be out here for longer than absolutely necessary.  

Dean almost lost his balance on the next step, and Cas made a pained noise, his arms so tight around his neck he could hardly breathe.

“You are going to give me a panic attack,” Cas said.

“Don’t joke about that.”

“It’s not a joke,” Cas murmured, Dean taking another slow step, thighs burning.

“ _Dah, dah-duh, dah-duh... Back in black!_ ,” Dean sang between puffs of breath.  

“Dean,” Cas said. “Dean, what are you doing?”

“I’m helping!”  Dean said, tightening his grip on Cas’ legs.  Three more steps, only three more goddamn steps.  “ _Back in black!  I hit the sack… I been too long I'm glad to be back… Yes I am!_ ”

Cas groaned against his skin, loosening his grip a little.

“ _Let loose from the noose… that's kept me hanging about!”_ Dean took the last step, sinking very slowly onto his knees.  “ _I keep… looking at the sky cause it's gettin' me high… forget the hearse cause I'll never die…_ ”  Dean took a deep breath, bowing forward as he felt Cas unlatch himself from his back, sitting down on the cold ground beside him.  He felt warm, shaky hands on his cheeks, pulling him forward, breath coming out in shallow pants.

“Dean,” Cas huffed.

Dean moved forward on his knees between Cas’ legs, hand winding around his waist.  Cas draped his arms around his neck, nosed at his cheek.

“ _I got nine lives cat's eyes… using every one of them and runnin' wild… cause I'm back_ ,” Dean smiled around the words, Cas’ smile as wide and crooked as it had been the day he’d fallen stupidly in love with him.  

“ _Yes, I’m back…_ ” he breathed, leaning down to kiss him.

\--

Sam paced around the apartment, restless now that Ellen and Jo were downstairs working at the bar.  

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell, thumbing through a few of Jess’ texts from earlier.  He re-read about her day, about how she’d gotten a haircut and how it wouldn’t sit right anymore.  Questions about Cas after he’d told her the news that Dean was finally bringing them both home.

 Sam smiled and flipped his phone closed again, walking over to stare at the landing outside the apartment door.  When he looked through the peephole he saw two bodies twined together on the concrete, limbs tangled up with one another.  

Sam rolled his eyes and let out a breathy laugh, opening the door.

“I’m already pining for the days when you two were sneaking around, Jesus Christ,” Sam smiled, watching as they both nearly jumped out of their skin.  Like they hadn’t fucking realized they were making out in plain view right outside four apartment doors.

“Sam,” he heard Cas’ voice gasp out, his hands clumsily pushing back against Dean’s chest.

Cas tried to push himself up off the ground, and Sam’s heart sank to his stomach when he couldn’t manage it.  Cas squeezed his eyes shut, made a frustrated noise as he tried again.  Sam just walked forward and fell to his knees beside him. 

Before Cas could make another attempt to push himself up, Sam wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

“Sam?” Cas asked, his arms still down by his sides.  Sam laughed and squeezed him harder.

“This is the part where you hug back,” Sam choked, surprising himself with how hard to words were to get out.  He hadn’t even realized how scared he’d been, and it all just kind of hit him square in the chest like a truck.  Cas’ arms wrapped around him, clumsily, unsteadily.  Sam just held onto him tighter.  

“Sam, I’m so sorry.  Are you alright?”  Cas asked thickly.  Sam just laughed, helplessly.

“Are you fucking k-kidding me, man?” Sam asked, his voice breaking a little.  “I’m fine.  You can’t even stand up, Cas.  Fuck you shouldn’t have… you didn’t have to…”

“Of course I did,” Cas said, voice gruff, squeezing him tighter like he was giving it all he had.

Sam pulled away, wiping at his eyes and looking back at his brother.  Dean was on his feet, rubbing at his eyes, too, a little bloodshot and swollen, and cheeks pink from the cold.  

“Dean, are you _crying_?” Sam asked.

“Fuck you, it’s touching,” Dean snapped, pressing his palms against his eyes like a sobbing four year old before reaching down to offer both of them a hand to their feet.  “Let’s get going, I am not taking another trip to the fucking hospital for pneumonia.”

Together they all went inside, Cas pressed between them.

\--

Dean could smell the sauce cooking on the stove, onions, garlic, rosemary and tomatoes cut up and dropped in.  Pasta boiled noisily beside it, dripping water onto the stovetop, a loud hissing noise.  

He leaned against the arm of the couch, Cas’ back pressed against his chest, laying between his legs.  Dean wrapped his arms around his shoulders, one hand running through his hair.  It was soft, sticking up in all directions after a much needed shower.  Dean had stubbornly stoodby outside the door to make sure nothing bad happened.

His injured hand was splayed against Cas’ chest until Cas took it between his own hands.  He ran a thumb over the bandage.

“What happened?” Cas asked quietly, just barely audible above the sound of the stereo system playing a sultry female cover of ‘Wild Horses’.  He hummed along under his breath. “Dean?”

“I was angry,” Dean said, laughing thinly.  And feeling pretty fucking foolish, honestly.  “I was just really angry.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas told him, turning his head.  Dean pressed a kiss to his temple.

“S’over,” Dean said, kissing him again.  “We’re gunna do it better this time.”

Dean closed his eyes, mouth and nose pressed flush against Cas’ warm neck.  He breathed him in, listened as the music switched over to a new song.  He heard Cas start to hum along, the noise buzzing against his skin.  

“ _Every time that I look in the mirror…all these lines on my face getting clearer_ ,” Cas sang quietly.  Dean smiled, held him tighter.  “ _The past is gone, it went like dust to dawn._ ”

Dean sang back, voice out of tune, wavering.  “ _Isn't that the way, everybody's got their dues in life to pay!_ ”

Cas laughed, shoulders shaking, head leaning back to rest against his shoulder.  Jo walked into the living room, wooden spoon dripping with red sauce down the handle.  She grinned at the both of them, licking the edge of the spoon and rocking her hips along with the music.

“Dinner’s ready, where’s Sam?” she asked, looking around the corner into the hall.

“Think he’s holed up in your room talking to Jess,” Dean said, smiling when he heard Cas still humming along with the song.

“Uh oh,” Jo said, grinning.  “I’ll be right back.”

Jo disappeared down the hall, and Dean tucked his face into the space between Cas’ neck and shoulder, pressing soft kisses there.

“ _Sing with me, sing for the year… sing for the laughter and sing for the tear…_ ” Cas sang, his voice low and soft and gritty.  And fucking gorgeous.  He took a breath, sighing a little under Dean’s attention.  Dean felt his nerves bunch up in his chest, hands trailing down the length of Cas’ stomach, fingers pressed against hard line of his hipbones.  

“Cas?”

“Hmm?” Cas hummed.

“I love you.”

Cas stopped breathing for a moment, and Dean took the opportunity to kiss him again, right over his pulse.  The smallest touch in the silence.  He’d said it before, in cold and fear and desperation.  It felt right to say it again now, when they were both warm.  When they were both finally safe.

“I love you,” he said again, more quietly.  Dean felt like his heart was going to pump out of his chest, not knowing what he expected.  Not sure he needed anything in return.

“I love you,” he said one last time, feeling Cas’ hands cover his own, nails digging into his skin.

“Dean, I have never stopped loving you,” Cas said quietly.

For a moment it was the only thing Dean could hear.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of plans. This is not the last chapter, there will be one more after this. <3
> 
> Warnings for NSFW images.

Castiel had two feet on the concrete outside the Impala’s door.  His elbows dug into his thighs as he stared across the street at his house.  The house he’d grown up in.  The house that, after today, he’d only see as an outsider.  

There was something very cathartic about that realization.  

He hadn’t noticed that he’d been frowning until Dean moved in front of him.  Dean smiled thinly, his brow creased with concern as he looked him up and down.  Castiel pulled at the sleeve of the army green jacket he’d borrowed.  It would have been a little too big on him even before he’d lost weight. It smelled like Dean, though.  He wasn’t sure he was going to give it back.

“You ready?” Dean asked, reaching out to push his bangs away from his face, thumb brushing between his eyebrows.  He felt his expression soften.  He felt everything in him soften.

“Yeah,” Castiel answered, moving to push himself off the seat.  

When he finally stood, Dean wrapped his arms around his waist.  Castiel leaned into him, cupping his face and pressing a kiss to edge of his mouth.  Dean smiled into it.  Castiel pulled away to watch Dean’s eyes, vivid even cast in shadow.

Dean leaned in toward his neck.  Castiel felt the slight scrape of teeth, sighting and tilting his head, exposing more skin.  A shiver ran through him, chill bumps blooming as Dean latched his teeth at the base of his neck, sucking a soft, wet bruise and soothing it with his tongue.  He followed it with a small, closed-mouth kiss against the mark.

“Need help?” Dean asked, breath hot across his neck.

“I will if you keep doing that,” Castiel growled, nudging Dean’s head with his nose.  “Let’s go.”

“Mmmph, busy,” Dean whined.

“Dean.”

“ _Cas_ ,” he murmured, kissing him again.  “You’re not the only one who can say names.  I know what’s up.”

“I don’t want to be here longer than necessary,” Castiel said quietly.  Dean went still before the arms wrapped around his waist pulling him closer.  Castiel’s knees felt weak, and he gripped at Dean’s shoulders to stay upright.  “I don’t even know what I’ll take.”

“You’ll figure out what’s important,” Dean said, finally pulling back to look at him.  Castiel just stared at him, expressionless.  “What?” Dean asked.

“I have what’s important,” Castiel said, watching Dean’s eyes.  Dean leaned forward, his fingers rough and warm against the skin of his cheek, winding up into his hair, lips soft and wet as they parted around his own.  Dean nipped at his lower lip, Castiel’s breath caught in his throat as he kissed him back, savoring every touch.  Every small catch of skin, every dart of tongue.

Kissing Dean always made him feel like he was exactly where he needed to be.

“Yeah, well, you’re probably gunna need some underwear, too.  Just sayin,” Dean grinned, finally pulling away.  Castiel knocked their foreheads together playfully before they turned toward the house, Dean’s arm around his waist to keep him steady.

Castiel unlocked the door with his key, rescued from the bloodied remains of his favorite tan coat, and pushed open the heavy wooden door.  The foyer was dark, walls bare.  It smelled sterile like the hospital, like a bowl of potpourri that had long since lost its sweet smell.   There was hardly any noise, just the sound of the hinges as Castiel shut the door behind himself and Dean.

“Fucking freaky,” Dean muttered, rubbing at Castiel’s hip with his thumb.  

There was a noise from the direction of the living room, a soft patter of footsteps, and Dean's body went tense.  Uriel turned a corner into the foyer, one meaty hand wrapped around the strap to an empty mesh duffel bag.  His expression was guarded until Castiel met his eyes, and then it went lax, softened to something like familiarity and relief.

Silently, Uriel walked forward and held out the bag, Castiel reaching out for it with unsteady fingers.  His knuckles brushed his brother’s hand, taking hold of the strap.  Uriel didn’t let go.

“You’re really leaving?” Uriel asked, frowning.

“Is there a reason I should stay?” Castiel responded.  Uriel stared at him for a moment, creasing his brow like he was searching for a legitimate response.

“Where will you go?” He finally asked, still refusing to relinquish the bag.

Castiel didn’t answer, just looked over at Dean, eyes downcast.  Dean’s grip was tighter around his waist than necessary, like he was holding him steady in the face of more than just weak limbs.

“I’m sorry, Castiel,” Uriel said after a long pause, his fingers going tighter around the strap.  “It was never supposed to go so far.”

“It’s over,” Castiel said.  “It is for me, and it should be for you.”

“Yeah,” Uriel said, fingers finally going slack, the full weight of the bag a strain against Castiel’s tired muscles.  Castiel shut his eyes and took a breath.  “Watch out for him,” Uriel said, Castiel opening his eyes to see him turned toward Dean.  “He doesn’t ask for help when he should.  It’s one of his more frustrating qualities.”

Dean snorted out a laugh and tugged Castiel closer, more like an embrace now.

“Yeah, pretty sure that goes for both of us,” Dean responded.  

Castiel looked over at him, leaning in to nose at his cheek.  Dean sighed and started to walk them both toward the stairs, Castiel’s face buried against his neck.  His own fingers tightened around the strap of the duffel, feeling it knock against his thigh.

“I’ll miss you,” Uriel said quietly after them.  

Castiel stopped dead at the foot of the stairs.  A little clumsily, he handed the duffel to Dean, pulling away and turning to look straight back at his step brother.  Dean let him go as Castiel walked unsteadily forward, biting the inside of his cheek and cursing inwardly at how ridiculously difficult the simple task of walking was now, his head spinning, concentrating on every step.  Uriel made his way toward him, frowning concernedly. 

Soon there were hands on his shoulders.  He reached up and covered them with his own.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Castiel told him.  “You’re still my brother.  That’s never going to change.”

“You’re not well,” Uriel said, staring into his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Castiel said.  “I’ll get better.  Right now I'm better than I have been in a very long time.”

Uriel nodded before pulling him into a hug, his thick frame seeming smaller with Castiel’s arms wrapped around his shoulders.  

Once they finally parted, Dean helped Castiel up the stairs, silent and attentive until they stood in the doorway of Castiel’s bedroom.  He walked in ahead of Dean at first, letting his weight fall against the doorknob, gripping it with white knuckled fingers, shoulder pressed firmly against the wood as the door opened.  Dean walked past him, staring around the room, eyes wide as they roved over his collections of statues, books, and frames tacked on the wall.  Evidence of so many different faiths.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered, reaching out toward his dresser, fingers grazing one of the many ceramic arms of the Hindu goddess Kali.

“Among others,” Castiel grinned.

“What is all this?”

“I told you Anna was obsessed with saints.  Well, I was obsessed, too.  But with all of it.  It was something she eventually grew out of… but not me, I guess.”  Dean nodded slowly, tracing down the smooth surface of the statue to the base, touch as careful as when he touched Castiel’s face before a kiss.  An unanticipated, cautious sort of veneration.

“I love you,” Castiel told him, quietly, just because he meant it and it bore repeating.

Dean smiled and turned to him, pacing across the room until they stood face to face.  His warm hands cupped Castiel's jaw.

“What do you believe in, Cas?” Dean asked, searching his eyes.

“Nothing,” Castiel said, staring straight back at him.  “Everything.  I believe in the capacity of the human heart.  The… capacity for faith more than the necessity of it.”  Castiel smiled, took a breath.  “Truths don’t really concern me.  Whether God actually exists isn’t really the point.  People believe in this, they find comfort in this.  These faiths are evidence of culture, an imprint of thousands of hearts all believing in something so much, so passionately and unflinchingly.  And say what you will about the dangers of religion… in its purest form I think it’s beautiful.”

Castiel watched Dean, the blush creeping up his cheeks.  He had soft, thick lips, arched like a bow.  A straight, pretty nose speckled with pale freckles, marring his paler skin.  His eyes were wide, bright green, pupils dilating as he stared back.  Dean was beautiful. 

“We went to a Catholic Church when we were young,” Cas said. “Every Sunday.  I think that even when I doubted the existence of God, or at least doubted the idea that He cared one iota about any of us, I never really lost interest in the way people sang to Him, or the way people were brought to tears by Him."

Castiel reached up and placed both hands over Dean’s chest, heartbeat thrumming against his palm. 

"I believe in potential, that we are more because we can choose to make ourselves more, just like faith can take a story and turn it into something profound.  Just like you are more than a cluster of nerves.  This," Castiel pressed a little harder down on his chest, Dean taking a shallow breath, "is what matters, your soul, your heart, your… capacity for love.”

He sighed when Dean kissed him, just at the edge of his jaw.  

"That’s what I believe in," he finished.

“You’re somethin’ else, Cas,” Dean said, heart beating just a little faster.

\--

Castel filled the duffel with clothes at first, stopping once it was halfway full to look around his room.  There were so many objects he didn't realize it would hurt to leave behind.  He could survive without a huge wardrobe, but his books... maybe a few statues.  Things he couldn't easily replace.

"Just take whatever you want, man.  We run outta room in the bag and we can go grab a garbage bag to throw shit in."  Dean sat at the end of the bed, surrounded by a few plain white button up shirts.  Castiel had at least four of them. "Probably best to throw your clothes all in the garbage bag and put your nice shit in the duffel, actually.  I'm gunna go grab one downstairs.  Think your brother will point me in the right direction or just try to choke me out once we're alone?"

"He's always been a bit severe.  I wouldn't want to test it."

"What, you serious?"

Castiel grinned, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"We have a box of trash bags under the sink in the bathroom down the hall.  It'll be on your right," Castiel told him, abandoning his drawer of socks and picking up the statue of Kali.  He'd definitely take this one. 

He didn't notice Dean had walked up behind him until there were hands on his hips, hot breath on his neck.  He could feel his pulse beating in the bruise Dean had sucked into his neck earlier, a vivid and pleasant sensation.

"Back in a sec," Dean purred into his ear, kissing the shell before pulling away.  

Castiel was left standing there, red faced and breathing a little too hard.

Dean came back soon with a trash bag, sitting at Castiel’s feet and moving all of the already packed clothes into it while Castiel grabbed things he deemed more important.  There was a rather beautifully painted statue of the Buddha, one he was sure Gabriel had swiped from a farmer’s market a year before his father had left.  There was the Kali statue, a few worry dolls that had found themselves separated from the group set up against his alarm clock.  

There were a few different rosaries, as well.  He didn’t have a favorite.  One had beads in turquoise and amber, another in nothing but black onyx.  Another made out of silver, heavy and intricate.  Drowned in holy water by a capricious younger Anna, thinking he would like it more that way.  That adventure had earned them both a harsh reprimand from a surly, red-faced Deacon.

There was one he almost missed… made out of cheap twine and plastic beads shoved to the side of his dresser, glue rising up in thick clumps from a cheaply made wooden cross.  Castiel reached over for it, cradling it in his palm so he could examine it more closely, and he felt Dean wrap an arm around his leg.

“You make that?” Dean asked, staring up at the chain dangling over the side of his hand, beads in bright pastels; some thick and cylindrical, others round, all made of cheap plastic.

“Yeah.  When I was five or six,” Castiel smiled, rubbing at the glue with his thumb.  The rosary was an ugly thing, but solid.

“Not much of a craftsman, are ya?”

“I was a child, Dean,” Castiel told him impatiently, and Dean's laughter shook them both.

They went through the rest of his room together.  Castiel took his books, the ones he’d marked up.  He took his favorite statues.  He took one frame from the wall, and then thought better of it, opening up the back so he could keep the paper inside.  

"There's a library down the road from here, maybe a couple miles away," Castiel told Dean, grazing two fingers over the surface of the paper, admiring the faded Arabic lettering.  His own handwriting was scrawled in blue ink at the margins.  "I haven't been in a long time.  I hope they're still open.  I used to spend hours there."  He rolled the paper in his fist, a tight cylinder.  "I made hundreds of copies of book pages, this one was from the Quran.  I could have found an English version, and I did, but I used to like to print out pages and try to translate them myself.  That was calming in its own way."

"Sounds fuckin' difficult.  I have trouble remembering the word for blue in Spanish class."

" _Azul_ is blue," Castiel smiled, handing the paper to Dean to put into the bag.  "And I wasn't good at it.  I maybe translated a few lines.  Collectively."

"Still.  You taught yourself that?"

Castiel nodded, turning back toward his desk and rummaging through the drawers.  The figure he was looking for was missing, and he frowned, fingers tracing the tops of other trinkets.

"Spent a lot of time alone?"

Castiel nodded again, slower.

Without a word, Dean stood from the floor and moved to his side.  Setting one hand on his cheek, Dean turned his head slowly for a kiss.  Castiel let himself have it, happily.

Once they were done packing, one trash bag full of clothes and a duffel bag full of trinkets and books, Dean lugged both heavy bags down the stairs.  Setting them at the door, he turned back for Castiel, poised to help him down as well. Castiel tried not to show how much that bothered him. Dean seemed to realize it anyway and just waited patiently for Castiel instead of heading back up.  Holding tight to the bannister, head spinning only a little, Castiel found that making his way down stairs was a great deal easier than up them.  So at least there was that.

It was darker outside when they finally left, duffel hoisted clumsily on Castiel's shoulder, Castiel leaning heavily against Dean.  There was a finality about it that Castiel wanted to drink in.  As unsure as he was about his future, about what was supposed to happen next, he still wished he could have walked away sooner.  None of it had been worth it in the end.  

"Hey, jackass, step away from the car!" Dean shouted beside him, tugging them both forward.  Castiel hissed and shut his eyes, head pounding.  "Fuck, sorry... Cas?"

"Heya Dean-o, that's no way to talk to friends!" a familiar voice chided back.  Castiel opened his eyes, staring back at the Impala, her sleek black frame near glittering in the low light.  Gabriel was sitting on the hood, his thin-lipped grin wide and playful as he watched them approach.  He tossed something small back and forth between his hands, and Castiel's first instinct was to wrench it from him.

"We," Dean said gruffly, "are not friends."

"Dude, cold.  Thought we had a moment back at the hospital," Gabriel sighed exaggeratedly, embellishing it by clutching at his chest like he'd been struck.  Castiel frowned at him.  Years without a word and this is how his brother comes back.  Really.  He shouldn't even be surprised.  "Hey there baby bro, how's the noggin?" Gabriel grinned, knocking the side of his head with a closed fist.

Castiel just stared at his brother, unsure of what response he should even have.  He slowly pushed Dean away so he could shuffle forward on his own, feet heavy against the concrete.  Dean grabbed his shoulder before he got too far, sliding the duffel down his arm so he could take it from him.  Castiel gave him a wary look, but Dean just grinned and swung the bag over his own shoulder, side-eyeing Gabriel as he turned.

"Where have you been?"  Castiel asked, his voice thin.  "You come back now?  Really?  Where were you when we lost Anna?"  Castiel took a long step forward without thinking and he wobbled, shooting his arms forward to catch himself if he fell.

"Woah there, kiddo," Gabriel said, arms raised as Castiel straightened.  Dean jerked his head around to look at him, halfway through throwing the bags into the backseat of the car.  Castiel hissed through his teeth, locking his knees to keep himself upright.  “What’s with the sea legs?”

“Lasting effects from my injury,” Castiel said, parroting off one of the nurses.

“Huh,” was Gabriel’s only response. 

He tossed the small object between his hands again, Castiel catching a glimpse of it now that he was closer.  It was the small plastic Loki figurine he’d been looking for in his bedroom, paint rubbed off the top of the head from years of tucking it away in his pocket, wrapping his fist around it so he’d feel a little less abandoned.  The toy Gabriel had left behind for him years ago, a poor replacement for family.

“That’s mine,” Castiel said, watching it.

“Oh really?” Gabriel grinned, tossing it in the air and letting it flip twice before catching it again.  “I dunno, Cassie, you seem pretty pissed with me.  Not sure why you’d care about this cheap old thing.  Feeling a little nostalgic for the good old days?”

“I’m having a hard time remembering why I missed you,” Castiel said, grinning despite himself. 

“Ah!  But you did miss me,” Gabriel smiled, finally pushing himself off the hood of the car, Dean glaring at him as he passed.  He walked toward Castiel, stopping a few feet away, hands on his hips.  “I was here… when we lost Anna.  Believe it or not.  I’m not the heartless bastard you think I am,” he said, voice a little lower, like he didn’t want passerby’s to know his horrible secret.  “Or maybe I am.  The jury’s still out.”

Castiel sighed and glanced over at Dean, nodding at him to let him know it was okay to leave the two of them alone for the moment.  Dean nodded back, opening the driver side door and slipping inside.  The engine turned over.

Castiel felt a hand close in on the side of his head, Gabriel tipping his face forward and examining the now uncovered wound, a small incision point, pale against his newly cropped hair.  Castiel shut his eyes tight, willing himself not to feel ill at the sudden swell of dizziness.

“So what, running off with your boyfriend into the sunset?” Gabriel asked playfully.  “Not that I blame you for wantin’ to get out or anything.  I’m the last person who can give you shit for that,” he continued, his voice suddenly a little too serious.  There was still a hint of playfulness, but he was trying a little too hard to keep it up.  Castiel rolled his eyes as Gabriel relinquished his grip on the side of his head. 

“What exactly are my options?” Castiel asked, looking up into his brother’s sharp eyes.  Gabriel grinned, glancing back at the Impala for a second before meeting his gaze.  Castiel remembered being shorter than Gabriel before, but now he was half a head taller.  It was unsettling.

“Come live with me,” Gabriel finally said.

“What?” Castiel asked, taken by surprise.  His first instinct was to say no.  To say ‘ _hell no’_.  Gabriel wasn’t dependable, and he wanted… Cas finally wanted to stay.

“Look, you’re a tough kid, and I get that, I do, but you think he can take care of you?  His parents okay with you living with them?”  Gabriel cocked his head to the side, indicating the Impala.

“His parents aren’t around,” Castiel admitted.  Gabriel sighed.

“You’re not an idiot and I’m not gunna treat you like one.  You’re still legally a kid, though, and I’ve got a pretty nice place.  Built in bar, remote-controlled stereo system and bed combination,” Gabriel rolled his eyes up to the sky, clouds tinged in purples and oranges.  “You know, for all the ladies you won’t be bangin’.”

Castiel glared at him and Gabriel laughed, crossing his arms in front of his chest, Loki figure still gripped between his fingers. 

“We can get you set up with a regular doctor.  You’re gunna be eighteen in less than seven months, you might as well take the time to get better before you make any life-changing decisions.”

“When did you get so responsible?” Castiel asked, reaching up to pull at the hair behind his ear.  It wasn’t there anymore.

“Different when your baby brother gets conked over the head and ends up in a coma and then near-fucking catatonic for a week.  You’ve got no mobility, no adult support.  I shouldn’t be the one having to explain this to you,” Gabriel told him, all pretense at playfulness gone.

Castiel took a deep breath and looked over at the Impala.  The bass rumbled the frame slightly, Dean tapping his fingers along the shelf of the side window.

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Gabriel said, holding up the toy between his fingers and waving it around in front of his face.  Castiel opened his palm, Gabriel dropping it without a lot of flourish.  Like he’d more or less lost interest in the thing.  “I live a couple hundred miles from here.  It’s not undoable, but it’s a far cry from an easy trek for a teenager with barely any income.”

There was a painful ball of nerves in his stomach, a tightness in his chest.  Not unlike so many other times in his life, he knew what he needed to do.  He just really, really didn’t like it. 

“Hey,” Gabriel said, clapping him on the shoulder.  “Cheer up.  I’m actually a ton of fucking fun and what’s a few months in the face of ‘true love’, right?”

“Yeah,” Castiel replied, his throat too dry.

Just a few months.

\--

Dean watched Cas carefully as he slid into the passenger’s seat, turning down the volume on his stereo.  Cas was hunched over a little in the seat, face pressed into his palm.  Then he took a deep breath, and Dean reached over and put a hand on his shoulder.  Cas smiled a little at the gesture, but that just kind of made him worry more.

“What’s up?” Dean asked, touching his cheek before pulling away, hand on the gear shift.  He pulled out from the curb, watching the rearview mirror as Gabriel shoved his hands into his pockets and started to walk in the opposite direction.  Dean could still hear James Hetfeild grating out melodies in the silence of the car, just barely audible. 

“Gabriel,” Cas started, voice thick.  “He wants me to go live with him during my recovery.”

That was not what he’d expected.

“Oh,” Dean said, unable to ignore the knot that welled up almost immediately in the back of his throat.  “Where’s he live?”

“Not close,” Cas said quietly, face still in his hands.  “Something like a few hundred miles… he said.”

Dean bit the inside of his lip, staring down the road.  Neither of them said a word, song still churning on in the near silence, the familiar string of melody setting a solemn beat.  Dean sighed and arched himself out of his seat, grabbing at the cell phone shoved in his back pocket.  He saw Cas turn to look at him out of the corner of his eye.  Dean just shot him a grin, flipping open the phone and thumbing clumsily through his contacts for Sam’s number, one hand on the wheel.

It rang three times before his brother finally answered.

“ _What’s up?_ ” Sam asked, words muddled, chewing or clacking something against his teeth.  It was so loud that Dean wanted to punch him.

“Not much, you wild goddamn animal.  Think you can stave off your glass chewing till the end of the call so I can keep my eardrum intact?” Dean asked, grinning thinly.  Sam laughed, and if anything, the noise just got worse.

“ _Doubtful_ ,” Sam said, smile evident in his tone.  “ _Jo made peanut brittle_.”

“Dude, you aren’t supposed to chew that.  You think we got money to fix a chipped tooth?” Dean asked.  “Plus how the hell are you two gunna make that shit without me?  I can’t fuckin’ believe you would betray me like this.  I’m hurt, Sammy.  Wounded.”

“ _Sure_ ,” Sam said.  His eye roll was damn near audible.  The chewing got softer, though, replaced with a worse sort of sucking noise.  “ _Why’d you call?_ ”

“I, uh, Cas and I ain’t comin’ back to Ellen’s tonight.  See if you can get a ride back to the house sometime tomorrow.  If not I can come get you.”

“ _What?  Why?  Is everything okay?_ ” Sam asked.  Dean made himself laugh, even though his chest felt a bit empty.  Cas’ hand closed over his knee.

“Yeah, dude.  Just need some alone time.”

“ _Gross_ ,” Sam said.

“You’re gross,” Dean teased back.  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“ _Yeah alright, see ya,_ ” Sam said.

“See ya,” Dean responded, the line going dead.  He folded the phone back up and set it in the empty cup holder.  Then he closed his hand over Cas’, their fingers lacing together.

“That was a little presumptuous of you,” Cas teased in that low, rough voice, squeezing his hand without a lot of force.

“Yeah?” Dean asked, surprised when his voice broke just the barest amount.  Christ, he was not going to do this.  Didn’t want to admit how much it didn’t even matter if Cas wouldn’t do anything but kiss him.  Just wanted him close, closer than the couch at Ellen’s would allow.  Wanted to wrap himself up in Cas.

“No,” Cas said quietly, leaning in toward Dean until his face pressed against his shoulder.  “You can ask for anything.”

“What if I asked you to stay with me?” Dean posed quietly.  It was supposed to be a joke, but it didn’t sound like one.  Cas needed to go.  Dean wasn’t selfish enough that he’d risk Cas’ recovery just because he wanted to keep him close.  He couldn’t take care of him.  He couldn’t be enough for him right now.

They were still just kids… it’s all they’d ever been. 

Cas didn’t respond, just tucked himself in closer, kissing his neck.  Dean warmed, the need to touch him achingly persistent.

“Fuck, we don’t ever get a break, do we?” Dean asked, holding Cas’ hand like a lifeline.  He turned onto his street, headed toward the house he’d left empty for weeks.  “Just want you with me tonight.  Can I have that?”  He sounded desperate, like he was asking for one more night of air to breathe. 

“Yes,” Cas said, giving it to him. 

\--

Dean kissed him as soon as they were out of the car. 

Soft and careful, down the edge of his jaw.  Cas’ back was pressed to the side of the Impala, arms wrapped around his waist.  He kissed him until the cold started to bite at their fingers, the sun low in the sky. 

“Let’s go,” Cas murmured against his cheek, teeth slightly chattering.

Dean kissed him again when they stepped through the door into the house, this time across the bridge of his nose, at the corners of his eyes, smiling into it, drunk off it.  Cas whimpered softly against his skin as he marked the space with feather-light touches.  His hands were ice cold, pressed under Dean’s jacket, under Dean’s shirt.  They soaked up his warmth, drawing lines down the soft muscle of his stomach.  Dean pulled them toward his bedroom in the growing dark, Cas unsteady and gripping at the waist of his jeans.

Once the door shut behind them, Dean turned them around, pressing Cas up against it. He covered Cas’ body with his own, Cas’ arms slipping around his shoulders.

“You okay?” Dean asked, nudging at his cheek with his nose.

Cas just nodded, leaning in and pressing their foreheads together.  Dean smiled at the touch, _every_ touch, a shallow laugh that barely pushed from his lungs.  Just on the right side of breathless.

“Want you,” Dean admitted, his voice a low, pinched growl.  “It’s okay if you don’t… if it’s too fast or whatever,” he said, even softer, fumbling with the hem of Cas’ shirt.  He tried not to think of before, how careless and cold he’d been in the Impala that night.  Cas said it was alright, but it wasn’t.  “It’s fine, I just…  I do.  I want you, Cas.  Whatever you’ll give me.  I want you so bad.”

Dean felt the blood rush from his head, his stomach tight, vision bleary.  He brushed the tip of his nose with Cas’.

“Listen to me,” Cas said, staring him straight in the eyes, unflinching even in the short distance.  “There’s hardly been a single moment since I _met_ you that I haven’t wanted you.  You’ve been in my head since I first saw you… in my heart since I first touched you.  So stop feeling guilty for being human and just…” Cas leaned forward, one hand wrapped around the back of his neck like he was afraid Dean would pull away.  “Just take what I’m giving you, because I will take everything… anything you give to me.”

Dean closed the space between them, hardly a breath of hesitation before he took Cas’ lower lip gently between his teeth. 

His hands slipped below the hem of Cas’ shirt, fingertips grazing the smooth skin.  The jut of hipbone was defined under his thumb, and he traced the skin as he made his way around to the small of his back.  Cas kissed him slowly, one light, wet press across the swell of his lower lip. Dean’s hands shook, heart beating too fast to breathe properly anymore.

Fuck, Cas could take him apart.

He bit down a groan, Cas watching him as he sucked his lip into his mouth.  Dean laughed against the warm skin of his cheek, across his mouth, trembling lips stealing another slow kiss.

“What?” Cas asked quietly, returning it.

“Love you,” Dean smiled. 

Wordlessly, Cas slid his long fingers down Dean’s jaw.  Dean pulled back to look at him.  Cas just smiled, staring at him in earnest, eyes lidded and cheeks flushed.  God, he was perfect.

Screw whatever came next, screw being sad, or scared, or helpless.  Cas was whole, he was safe, he’d have a home and right then he was happily wrapped in Dean’s arms. They’d been through so much worse than distance.  Dean wasn’t scared.  There wasn’t any room left in him to be scared.

Just room enough for this.

Dean kissed him slowly as he pushed his jacket off Cas’ arms, letting it fall to the floor.  He kissed him again as he pushed the thin tee toward his collar, bunched up in his fist before ridding Cas of it completely. Cas stood in front of him.  Shirtless, and too goddamn thin, but still strong, still holding himself with purpose despite the waver in his step. 

Leaning in, he kissed his collarbone, going dizzy just at the smell of him, the rush of blood that pooled at the base of his gut.  Dean kissed his way down his chest, Cas’ hands wound in his hair, almost falling to his knees to get lower.  He thought better of it. 

Dean pulled away and looked at him, blue eyes clear and watching him with that intensity that made everything in Dean go soft.  He touched Cas’ face and pulled away completely, grabbing the hem of his own shirt and wrenching it over his head in one swift motion.

He stood there, bare.  Dean let him stare, because he knew what it meant to Dean to let anyone see him.

Dean wrapped him arms around Cas again, sucking small, pretty bruises across his neck.  He enjoyed the feel of skin against skin, Cas’s arms wrapped around him.  Cas traced the outline of the scars on his back.  With Cas it was just reverence. 

He backed them up toward his bed, arms still tight around Cas’ waist before spinning them around.  The backs of Cas’ knees knocked against the mattress. Dean slowly worked open the fly of Cas’ pants. Cas took a shallow breath, his beautiful blue eyes going dark as he watched him.  Slowly, Cas’ pants pooled to the floor, and Dean kissed him again. Cas gripped his hips like he’d disappear if he let go.

Every single part of Dean needed it, and there was Cas, needing him just as much.

\--

Castiel shivered in the open air.  Dean’s hands were clasped at his sides, holding him steady as he stepped out of his slacks and boxers.

Dean wrapped him up, kissed him down the length of his shoulder as their bodies bumped together clumsily.  He pulled back, brushing the bridge of his nose toward the nape of Castiel’s neck, the softest touch of eyelashes.  It was like he was trying to memorize how Castiel’s skin felt against his eyelids.  Castiel rolled his hips forward, fingers tight around Dean’s biceps, finding friction against the soft swell of arousal in Dean’s jeans.  Felt so good to touch him, to be so close and so open.

“Fuck, Cas…” Dean murmured.  He cupped Castiel’s jaw with one hand, other hand splayed at the bare base of his spine. 

Castiel sat down on the edge of the bed, and Dean knelt down in front of him.   He moved in between his legs and nosed at the inside of his thigh.  Holding his breath, Castiel thread his fingers through Dean’s hair.

Dean kissed a line slowly from the inside of his knee to the dark, course hair between his legs, ignoring his half-hard cock to turn toward the other leg and do the same.  Castiel breathed shallowly, watching him, petting his hair when he remembered to move.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” Dean murmured into his skin, kissing the soft swell of lax muscle at the inside of his thigh. Dean’s lips parted, sucking a soft bruise into his over-sensitive skin.  Castiel’s cock twitched, needy.  Dean’s hands were splayed at the outside of his thighs, ghosting across the skin as he made his way toward Castiel’s hips. He sucked harder.

“Dean, please,” Castiel said. 

His voice sounded wrecked, his cheeks hot, gaze unflinchingly set toward the man between his legs. Dean looked up at him, green eyes bright, grinning as he bumped the head of Castiel’s swollen cock with his cheek.  Then there was a more deliberate touch, a kiss to the tip, wet and slow, just the barest amount of pressure, and nowhere near what he needed. 

Castiel whimpered a soft prayer consisting only of the words _please_ and _more_.

“Tell me what you want,” Dean said, kissing the tip again.  His tongue darted out across the sensitive skin.  It was too much and too little at the same time.

“Want you,” Castiel tried, voice thick.  He attempted to rock his hips forward, to get Dean to take him down further, more than just the head, so swollen and oversensitive.  Dean held him down, running his thumbs up and down his sides.  He laughed when Castiel started to pull at his hair.

“Want me to _what_ , baby?” Dean asked playfully, voice a deep growl.  He wrapped his lips around the head and took him halfway down, all in one, hot, fluid motion.

“I want you inside me, Dean,” Castiel said, face going hotter.  Dean groaned around his cock, and Castiel could feel his tongue going to work against the sensitive skin as he took him further, pumping his head forward, a slow, languid roll.  Dean hollowed his cheeks and Castiel’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling, pulling Dean’s hair again.  “Oh my God,” he whimpered.  “Please, want you to fuck me.”

Dean pulled off with a soft, wet noise. 

“Fuck,” Dean groaned, looking up at him with hooded eyes.  “Really want that, baby?”

Cas nodded, and he could feel himself shaking.  Dean’s lips parted, his green eyes going dark.

“I’ll make it good, won’t hurt you,” Dean said, slightly breathless.  ~~~~

“I know,” Castiel told him.

“Lay back,” Dean said, taking Castiel’s cock loosely in his fist, pumping him a few times.  Castiel leaned over, pulling Dean’s face to his and kissing him slowly.  Dean hooked his arms under Castiel’s legs and pushed him further up the bed, Castiel’s arm wrapped around his shoulder.  Once they were dead center, Dean knelt between his open legs.

Castiel let him go, lying back against the comforter and closing his eyes.  Dean stroked him loose-fisted, pressed a kiss to his stomach.  Castiel sucked in a breath, his body tensing and relaxing at the slow, easy waves of pleasure.  It built in the base of his spine, his limbs drawn pliant across the mattress.

He wouldn’t last long, Dean touching him like that.

With another quick, stuttered breath, the sensation was gone.

He heard Dean undo his fly,pants hitting the floor, belt buckle rattling noisily against itself.  Then there was heat. Dean pressed himself against him, cock brushing his stomach as he slotted their bodies together, both completely bare.  Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders and pulled him closer, missing the feel of his skin against Dean’s. 

For a moment, they just held one another.  Castiel grazed his fingers down Dean’s spine, Dean kissing him slowly at the curve of his neck, breath hot and shallow across his collarbone.  Dean’s arm wrapped around his waist, his other hand in Castiel’s hair, petting and pressing as he moved to kiss his mouth. 

“Love you,” Castiel said quietly, surprising himself with that broken tone.  Then he laughed, the weight in his chest making it hard to breathe.  He felt Dean’s smile against his skin, a kiss to the edge of his mouth.

“Love you, too,” Dean said, rolling his hips.  His cock slid against Castiel’s, not nearly enough pressure or heat for either of them.  “So much, so fucking much.”

Castiel rolled his hips up, chasing that feeling, that building heat, arms so tight around Dean’s shoulders he might break him.  Dean laughed and kissed him again, rolling off him and onto his side.  He touched Castiel down the center of his stomach, one arm still wrapped around his waist, cradling Castiel against him.  Castiel thrust his hips into the open air, a needy groan in the back of his throat.

Dean reached back and opened the drawer on his nightstand, straining until he found what he was looking for.  When he turned back, there was a small bottle clutched in his fist.  Dean flicked it open with his thumb.

“Little help?” Dean smiled, handing him the bottle.  His other arm was still trapped under Castiel’s body. 

Castiel took it from him and turned the bottle over, squeezing the clear liquid into Dean’s open palm.  He watched Dean warm it between his fingers, closing the bottle himself and setting it beside them on the bed. 

He expected a touch, a press of fingers between his legs, the idea making his body tense, heart pounding hard and fast in his chest. 

Instead, Dean wrapped his slick hand around his cock.  He thumbed the tip before pumping him in long, fast flicks of his wrist.  Castiel could feel his whole body tensing up, the building pleasure making his vision go white, his breath caught in his lungs.

“Come on, baby,” Dean groaned, kissing his neck.  “Let go.”

Castiel shook in Dean’s arms, skin slick with sweat.  He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t do more than gasp, shutting his eyes and letting the feeling wash over him.  He felt warm stripes of come over his chest and stomach, and Dean stroked him through his orgasm, kissed his neck.  Then he whispered something Castiel couldn’t understand.  He didn’t need to, he knew what it meant.

\--

Dean nearly lost it as he watched Cas come.  He rolled his hips against the mattress, barely any pressure, needing more.

He took a deep breath and let go of Cas’ softening cock, pressing his fingers between his legs down toward that tight, pink ring of muscle.  He watched carefully at Cas’ reactions, his blue eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed.  Castiel opened his legs, knees bent and feet against the mattress, letting Dean in.  That was all he needed.

“Trying to relax me?” Cas murmured, sounding half drunk.

“Want you to feel good,” Dean smiled, pressing his middle finger to Cas’ hole, circling the muscle until he felt it clench up, and then relax again.  Slowly, he pressed in, just to the first knuckle.  Fuck, he was tight.  Cas tensed up a little, and Dean kissed his neck, circling his finger inside him, stretching him slowly. 

“This okay?” Dean asked, pumping his finger in and out, going a little further each time.

“Yes,” Cas breathed, “S’good – Ah…  Weird.  Doesn’t hurt.”

“Okay,” Dean said, leaning in, settling his forehead at the crook of Cas’ neck. 

Dean listened to Cas’ breathing, so fucking quiet, but his body was alive under his hands.  Dean pressed his finger all the way in, spreading the warm lube as thoroughly as he could manage.  When he brushed Cas’ prostate, Cas’ whole body tensed up, and he whimpered, hand winding into Dean’s hair. 

“That was… that felt good,” Cas gasped. 

Dean smiled, lifting his head to see Cas’ cock responding as well, already half hard and knocking against his stomach.  He pulled his finger out, and then added another beside it.  Cas whimpered when he pressed both in past the first knuckle.  Dean nudged Cas’ head, getting him to turn toward him.

“You okay?” Dean asked, Cas staring over at him with wide eyes.  He pressed his fingers in slowly, halfway there.  Cas visibly struggled to relax his muscles.

“Yes, sorry,” Cas said, voice low and wrecked.  “Hard to relax.”

“Kiss me,” Dean said quietly. 

Cas leaned forward hungrily, catching his mouth.  Dean darted his tongue out, pressing slowly between Cas’ parted lips.  He pushed in a little further when Cas finally stopped clenching around his fingers.  Dean held him close, deepening the kiss, his fingers buried in Cas.  He waited until Cas was breathing again before he started to scissor them.

Every time Cas tensed up, he softened the kiss. 

Cas’ eyes glazed over, cheeks and shoulders flushed in pleasure. Dean pumped in and out of him, loose enough that Dean could add a third finger.  Eyes shut tight, full lips parted, Cas groaned and clenched down purposefully around him, and he could hardly fucking stand it.  He rut up against Cas’ hip, biting his lip to ebb the building pressure. 

Cas took the third finger much better than the second.  He let Dean hold him close and kiss the tension out of him.  Dean targeted his prostate, finally loose enough, fucking in and out of his warm hole as he watched Cas writhe against the mattress, hands white knuckled against the sheets.  Cas’ cock bobbed against his stomach, pink and flushed, curved over, precome beading from the tip. 

Dean leaned down and licked it, Cas gasping at the added sensation.

“You ready?” Dean asked, pulling back up to look at him.  He slowly eased his way in and out of Cas, watching his soft, thick lips part as he struggled to breathe.

“Yes,” Cas said, “Please.”

Fuck, he could come just hearing Cas talk like that.

Dean kissed him hard, fucking into him with his fingers a few more times before he pulled out completely.  Cas whimpered at the loss, but Dean moved quickly, pulling his arm from under Cas’ body and moving to kneel between his legs.

Dean grabbed the small bottle and flicked it open with his thumb, pouring the lube directly onto his dick.

“Fuck,” he gasped, setting the bottle down again.  “Fuck that’s fucking cold.”  He fisted his cock and gave himself a few long pumps, trying to warm it and ignore the way Cas was shaking the bed with laughter.  “Screw you, fuck, yeah okay definitely… screw you,” Dean said, biting his lip and lining himself up with Cas. 

This was really happening.

He took a deep breath and tried to will himself not to be fucking nervous.  He wasn’t a virgin.  Far from it.  But this was Cas.  Cas was special.  Cas was… really important.  Fuck.

“Are you okay?” Cas asked quietly.

“What?” 

Dean stared down at Cas, breathing a little erratically.  Cas reached up and grabbed his shoulder, his hand a calming, grounding weight against his skin.

 “Are you okay?  Do you want this?”

Dean watched him carefully before bending over, abandoning the hand on his dick to touch Cas instead, a palm pressed to the hollow of his throat.  He kissed him, letting the warmth in his chest ease his nerves.  He felt Cas’ hand wrap around his dick, lining him back up.  Taking care of him, that ridiculous bastard.

He wasn’t nervous.  This was _Cas_.

“‘Course,” Dean smiled.

Cas angled his hips up, rubbing the shaft of Dean’s dick.  Dean bit back a groan, bottom lip between his teeth, and then he pushed in.  Cas groaned as the head of his cock slipped past the ring of muscle.  Dean wrapped himself around Cas, one arm around his waist, the other protectively cradling his head.  He pressed them together as close as he could.  Cas held him back, softly whimpering, sounding too much like pain. His fingernails dug crescent-shapes into Dean's skin.

“I got you,” Dean murmured, feeling Cas’ muscle tense and go lax around him. 

Very carefully, he buried himself to the hilt.

Dean closed his eyes, biting his lip to keep himself together.  He kissed Cas once he could manage it.  Cas shook very slightly in his arms, chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to take him.  Dean didn’t move inside him, just waited.

It was a minute before Cas finally relaxed, his nails no longer pressed so hard into his skin.  He nuzzled Dean’s face complacently, groaning and rocking his hips up, his cock pressed between them.  It felt hard, swollen.  Dean smiled and kissed his neck, pulling out slowly and then fucking into him, letting that heat build at the sound of Cas groaning under his breath.

Dean touched his forehead to the space where Cas’ neck met his shoulder, kissing and licking the salt from his olive skin.  He worked slowly into Cas, sweat beading off him, skin warm and sticking together where they touched and parted.  He moved in shallow thrusts, felt every clench of muscle, Cas’ hands winding into his hair.  Dean gasped against his skin.  

He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t keep it up anymore, he’d been at the edge for a fucking hour, just touching Cas, watching all the small ways his body could react to him.

“Cas,” he breathed, a wrecked noise as he fucked into him again, wanting to go deeper. 

“That all you got?” Cas growled, tugging his hair, angling his hips into the next thrust.  “Harder, I can take it harder.”

“F-fuck,” Dean near whimpered, kissing his neck, grazing his teeth along the edge of his jaw.  “Won’t last long.  M’so close, fuck you feel so fucking good,” he groaned.  Dean fucked hard into him, tempering himself once he was buried.  A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face. The pleasure thrummed under his skin, lighting him on fire from the inside out.

Cas groaned, latching his teeth around the lobe of his ear, sucking and nibbling and breathing hard.  Dean was so fucking close he couldn’t breathe.  He stopped moving altogether, just holding and kissing Cas until he could calm down enough to do anything else. 

If Cas kept clenching around him like that’s he’d come without moving at all.

He pulled out of Cas, pulled away and looked down at him, Cas’ blue eyes bright with anger and chest red and heaving with every breath.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean said, out of breath and biting his lip hard.  Cas just parted his lips and reached out to him, hand over his hip.  Dean took hold of Cas, loose-fisted.  He pumped his cock, long, languid strokes that had Cas gripping at the bedsheets again.  “Want you there with me,” he said, trying to ignore the waves of pleasure and heat still building in his gut.  He wrapped his thumb and forefinger around the base of his own dick, staving it off.

Fuck, what he wouldn’t give for some more goddamn stamina.

Cas fucked into his hand, raising his hips off the bed to meet him, eyes bright and wild.  He pulled hard at the sheets, his breathing erratic.  Cas was near shaking under his attention when Dean pulled himself away.  The look Cas gave him was murderous.

“Turn over, asshole,” Dean smiled, voice a little too pinched for the jibe to come across the way he meant it to.  His cock was throbbing, twitching in his hand.  Cas frowned at him, eyes blown black, breathing hard, but he rolled to his side, and then to his stomach.  Dean straddled him, letting go of himself.  His aching cock brushed just over the cleft of his ass.

Dean kissed him.  First to the fresh scar at the base of his skull, the skin still a little bruised beneath the short cropping of dark hair.  It was a soft kiss, a very careful one that settled something in Dean, calmed him even as his whole body screamed for release.  Then he laid one kiss on each of his shoulder blades, Dean rubbing himself slowly against Cas’ skin, the friction enough to keep him from losing his mind, the pleasure of it making his muscles tense.  He kissed him again on the small of his back, hands winged at his hips on either side.

“Dean, now, please,” Cas groaned, rolling his hips against the mattress. 

He could only really ignore that for so long.

Dean buried himself in one swift motion, pressed flush to Cas’ back, sweat drenched skin sticking together.  Cas whimpered, clenched up around him.  Fuck, he was so fucking tight.  He groaned and rolled his hips into that heat, easing the needy ache in his groin.   Dean ran his hands down the length of Cas’ arms, his thick, calloused hands covering Cas’ beautiful, long ones.  They twined together, Dean kissing his shoulder as the slow roll became a needy rut. 

He fucked into Cas.  Hard.

“Feel good, baby?” Dean asked, pulling out to the tip and then shoving back in with all the force he could manage, restraint gone by the fucking wayside.  Cas tightened the grip on their entwined fingers, whimpering every time he pulled out and fucked in deeper. Still slow, but hard, skin slapping.

“Yes, y-es, harder, Dean,” Cas begged.  He spread his legs to allow Dean deeper.  Dean pounded into him, the noise Cas made nearly tipping him over the edge.  Loud, uninhibited, fucking beautiful.  “So close, so… ah fuck, fuck,” Cas groaned, biting the sheets, that whiskey deep voice punching out a string of profanities.  ~~~~

Dean angled his thrusts until Cas screamed out again.

“There, right there, right,” Cas gasped.  Dean fucked into him again.  So close, he was so fucking close and Cas writhed under him, hips twitching forward so he could rub himself against the mattress. Dean kissed him, mouth open and panting across the back of his neck even as he thrust into him faster.  Harder, unmeasured, losing himself in it, vision bleary and teeth knocking against Cas’ skin.

“So good, Dean,” Cas groaned, an effort to even pull syllables together.  “God, so, so good…”

Dean fucked him faster, losing his rhythm but still angling toward his prostate so he could feel Cas fall to pieces in his arms.  Cas couldn’t speak anymore, he was barely breathing, fingers white knuckled between his own.   Dean bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, groaning into Cas’ ear.  He bowed his head to bite at Cas’ neck, pleasure building in hot waves, punching through him.  All he could hear, or feel, or smell was Cas and fuck it was…

“Perfect,” Dean breathed.

Dean came hard, half a sob punched from his heaving chest.  Cas clenched up around him as he buried himself as deep as fucking possible.  The heat was blinding, Cas still rutting against the sheets when he cried out, his body tensing through his release.  He squeezed Dean so tight he thought he might pass out from it.  Dean’s hips stuttered forward weakly as another wave of ecstasy washed over him, his eyelids drooping and his muscles going lax.

He just held Cas for a while, still buried inside him, cock soft and oversensitive.  They lay there until both of them could breathe evenly. Dean whimpered a little as he pulled out, warm come dripping between Cas’ legs. 

He kissed Cas at the base of his spine, just below his twin dimples like tiny wings nested against his back.

Cas rolled to his side, Dean moving slowly to lay down beside him, face to face.  Dean smiled, Cas’ eyes tired and lidded, but that bright, clear blue that made his heart race.  He reached out and pushed the sweat damp hair away from his forehead.

“Was that… good for you?” Cas asked, uncharacteristically meek.

“No,” Dean grinned.  “Fucking horrible, we’ll have to do the whole damn thing over.”

“You’re an ass.”

“You love me,” Dean smiled, opening his arms so Cas could fit between them, face nestled against his collarbone.  He shivered when Cas kissed him, across his chest, and then his neck.  He closed his eyes, sighing into it.

“Yes,” Cas said quietly, a little sadly.  “I do.”


	21. Chapter 21

Dean woke up in the dark, reaching out into the space beside him.  It was still warm, but empty.  He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to will his heartbeat to a steady pace.  He turned slowly to face the window, and there was Cas:  unclothed curves and angles silhouetted in the soft light from a nearby streetlamp, palm pressed against the glass.

Pushing the covers down, Dean got out of bed and made his way the short distance toward him.  He kissed the back of his neck, the skin mottled with pink bruises and pale teeth marks.  Cas inhaled at the touch, leaning back to press against Dean’s chest.  Dean ran his fingers along Cas’s shoulders, down the length of his arms, and kissed him again.

“What’s up?”  Dean asked quietly, moving one hand to Cas’ bare stomach, running a thumb across the dried come.  He could feel it on his own skin, on the inside of his thigh, the side of his wrist, between his fingers.  They should probably shower, but Dean didn’t mind.  He wasn’t ready to wash the night away just yet.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Cas said quietly.  His voice was a little hoarse, deeper than usual.  “Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” Dean sighed, trailing his touch down the center of Cas’ stomach, fingers brushing the coarse hair between his legs.  He liked that; the intimate, non-sexual touch.  He liked being pressed to Cas’ back, touching his warm skin, breathing in the smell of sweat and sex.  It was unhurried, easy.  Things they’d never had enough of.  “You uh… feeling bad?”

“I’m not panicking if that’s what you mean.  Not really, anyway,” he said, voice a little brighter than before, but still subdued.  Cas reached behind him to run his fingers through Dean’s hair.  “Just a little noisy.  I can’t stop thinking about…” Cas took a breath, fighters tightening.

Dean almost asked him to finish, but he was pretty sure he knew what Cas meant.  He didn’t really want to say it out loud, either.

“There’s something I need to do… I’d like you to be there with me.  Sam, too, if he’s okay with it,” Cas said.  “I think it’d be good… for all of us to go together.” He covered Dean’s hand with his own, letting it trail down a little further.  “I’d like to say goodbye to Anna.”  

Dean sucked in a breath, kissing Cas’ neck again.  “Yeah,” Dean said quietly.  “We can do that.”

Cas sighed, taking Dean's free hand and pulling it to his lips, kissing his knuckles. Slowly, he pushed Dean’s other hand down his waist, between his legs, breathing shallow.  Wrapping his fist around Cas' cock, Dean stroked him slowly, Cas swelling at his attention.

“I like when you touch me,” Cas said quietly, resting his head back on Dean’s shoulder.  Dean kissed his cheek, pumping him again, running his thumb over the tip.

“Like touching you,” Dean replied with a quiet laugh.  “Call that a win for both of us.” Cas hummed, reaching back to put his hands on Dean’s hips, fingernails catching his bare skin.  Dean shivered.

“Want... I want you,” Cas said, breathless.  His shoulders rose and fell shakily, his stomach contracting under Dean’s free hand as he stroked him faster.

“Sure you’re not too sore?”  Dean asked, his dick pulsing and rubbing against the cleft of his ass.

“I could... Ah... have you instead,” Cas offered between quiet moans, a little nervous, his slender hips twitching forward against his hand.  Dean groaned, rutting against him, smearing precome from the tip to the soft skin of Cas' lower back.

“Yeah,” Dean said, gripping him tighter, feeling Cas’ body go weak in his arms.  Dean held him steady, stroking him, slow enough to make Cas whimper with impatience.  Cas turned his head, lips parting to kiss him sweetly across his jawline.  He moved to catch Cas’ mouth, tongue grazing his lower lip.  “Yeah, baby,” he said quietly, "I want that…”

Cas’ only response was to kiss him again.

\--

When Cas took him, it was slow.  The way a prayer is slow; deliberate and sacred.

Dean lay on his side, Cas holding him from behind, ghosting his lips across his shoulders.   At first he just teased him, thumb slick and circling his hole until Dean practically begged for him to take it further.  The sensation was so intense, his cheeks hot as they parted around Cas’ slender fingers.  Cas trailed them down to his perineum and back up again, his thumb just barely dipping inside him.

Cas used his middle finger, pressed in slowly to the first knuckle, and the second.  Cas kissed his neck, Dean spreading his legs wider, thighs shaking as Cas worked in deeper.  He could hear Cas breathing in his ear, shaky and shallow and so, so warm.

When he pressed two fingers in, Dean clenched reflexively before he breathed it out.  Cas massaged him gently, the stretch slow and careful.  Their hands folded together over his chest, Dean letting Cas feel his heartbeat.  He rocked back against Cas’ nimble fingers, mouth parted, breathing in quiet, uneven gasps.

Cas took his time, almost excruciatingly careful.  He let Dean feel every push and prod, every damn second of it.

“Dean,” Cas said quietly, “Does it hurt?”  He circled his fingers very slowly inside him.  “Won’t hurt you again,” he said, so quietly Dean could hardly make out the words.  Dean turned his head to catch his mouth, kissing him as deeply as he could, tongue wetting the seam between his lips.

“Fuck,” Dean whimpered against his mouth.  “So good for me, baby.  You’re perfect.”

By the time Cas added a third finger, Dean was shaking.  Sweat beading on his skin, down his face, between his legs.  He felt Cas’ cock hard against his back, hardly more than teasing.  His own cock throbbed eagerly, heavily against his thigh, tip brushing the mattress.  Dean wanted to press them both together, unable to stand the waiting.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean whimpered, pausing to take another much needed breath.

Cas held Dean so tight it scared him, pressed his face against the back of his neck, whispered adoration into his skin.  He rubbed Dean open until his nerves were live wires, his chest heaving, falling apart and near tears from the pleasure of it.  Falling apart from just those careful movements.  Dean couldn’t do anything but to lose himself in Cas.

He pulled his fingers slowly out, Dean stretched and open, his heart beating so hard he felt lightheaded. Cas left Dean empty for only a moment while he slicked himself up, Dean reaching behind him to run a careful hand through Cas' hair.  Dean groaned softly when Cas finally pressed into him.  Only the tip, rubbing him just past that oversensitive ring of muscle.  Everything in him was on the edge, and every touch Cas gave him almost pushed him over.  He needed more.

There was an uncomfortable stretch, a burn, Dean's muscles contracting as Cas pushed in a little deeper.  Cas stopped moving when Dean made a noise like pain, teeth latched around his lower lip to keep from crying out.  Running a hand down his side, Cas’ touch ghosted against his skin, reaching down between his legs to touch his inner thigh, massaging the muscle.  His fingers shook like he was the one getting taken apart; he breathed like his chest hurt.  Dean reached down and covered Cas’ hand with his own, his thumb trailing over his knuckles.  

“S’okay baby,” Dean said, lacing their fingers together, moving Cas' hand to touch him between his legs, trembling fingers over his swollen cock.  Dean whimpered at the contact.  Cas ran a fingertip over his cockhead, other hand teasing the bud of his nipple, his whole body shaking with it. “Feels good, so good, want more of you," Dean gasped.  Cas kissed his neck, taking a shaky breath.  "Please."

He felt Cas exhale against his back, both arms wrapped tightly around his waist before starting to move again.

They didn’t speak.  They didn’t need to.  Cas listened to him, listened to the way his breath hitched in pleasure, burying himself and rolling his hips, moving inside him before pulling out the barest amount.   It was stretching him wide, all heat.  It was aching pleasure, and everything he needed.   Cas fucked him in shallow thrusts, holding him tight against his chest.  Dean gripped Cas' bare hips, leaving angry, red trails in his wake, Cas just keeping up that infuriatingly even pace.

Dean made a ruined noise, crying out as Cas suddenly fucked into him, deep this time.  Cas pulled back slowly, kissing his neck, before pounding into him again.  Cas’ skin was sticky with sweat.  Damp hair tickled the back of Dean’s neck, mouth wet around the knot of bone between his shoulders.  Dean moaned and rocked back on Cas’ cock, his own demanding to be touched, over sensitive and barely brushing the sheets bunched up at his waist.

He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t move but to meet Cas in another slow thrust, fingers petting and raking against the other man’s soft thigh.

It felt like minutes, or like hours, the pleasure slowly building in the base of his spine, Cas working him carefully.  Cas breathed into his skin, chest heaving and trembling, hips moving more erratically.  Dean turned as far as he could, nosing Cas’ damp forehead until he kissed him, lips unsteady, clumsily catching his own.

“Touch me,” Dean begged brokenly, feeling Cas push into him again.  He felt it, every inch of his body on fire, flaring up where Cas’ fingers moved over him.  “Please, baby, need…” Dean gasped, Cas burying himself, mouth parted, almost touching his own.  “Need you, Cas… please, please…”

Cas kissed him again, whimpering softly.  His face was wet where Dean’s nose brushed his cheek, and Dean felt it like a punch to his chest.

“Cas?”  He whispered, trying to turn so he could look him full in the face, but Cas held him close, one hand trailing down the center of his stomach.  Cas shook his head softly, making another delicate, broken noise, kissing him again.  “What’s wrong?” he breathed, fingers trailing along Cas’ hip.  

Cas just took a trembling breath, quickening his pace, Dean’s vision going white, his muscles limp and pliant.  Their legs tangled together in the sheets.  Cas touched him hesitantly at first, his fingertips grazing along the achingly sensitive skin.  Then he wrapped his fist around Dean’s swollen cock, hand still slick with lube.  He pumped him to the base, rubbing him in small flicks of his wrist as he took him a little faster, movements inconsistent, fevered.

“ _Cas_ ,” he groaned, "fuck yes, fuck..." His chest shook with every breath, fucking himself between Cas’ cock and hand.  

“I love you,” Cas said, his voice so broken and quiet Dean could barely understand him in the heat of his growing pleasure.  He fucked him deeper, their skin sticking together where they touched.  “I love you, I love you,” he repeated, stroking him fast and hard, that latent pleasure finally building to the point of ecstasy, his whole body feeling it in waves.

Cas came suddenly, chest shaking, breathing hard.  Dean felt his warmth fill him up, wrenching his own orgasm from him almost violently.  His whole body was wrecked, shaking with it.  He could feel it in the tips of his fingers, in the hollow of his throat.  Cas worked him through it, even as his hips slowed, burying himself one last time, warm come dripping out between his legs.

Cas pulled out slowly, whimpering against his skin.  Wrapping his arms tight around his waist, Cas’ body molded to the shape of Dean’s back.

“Don’t want to lose you again,” Cas said quietly, brokenly, kissing Dean’s neck.

“You won’t,” Dean told him, their fingers lacing together over his hip.  “I’m not going anywhere.  We’ll be okay.”

\--

Castiel walked, pressed between Dean and Sam, the grass dead beneath his feet. Dean’s arm was around his waist, thumb drawing circles soothingly against his hip.  The gesture made Castiel smile. 

They passed stone angels, weeds grown over their foundations.  They passed headstones, crosses of every shape and size, some with flowers laid down in the grass beside them.  Castiel worried his lip between his teeth.  Maybe he should have brought flowers.  She had loved the spring, hyacinths and lilies.  Dean’s hand tightened against his hip, and Cas breathed out slowly, reaching up to touch the St. Jude pendant he’d put around his neck.  It was a familiar, grounding weight.

When they arrived at her headstone, Castiel felt a knot welling in his throat, a longing he’d kept and held onto as tight as he could.   He wondered if it were possible to leave the feeling here with her.  There would probably always be a part of him that missed her, that wished he could walk down the hall to her bedroom, climb between her sheets.  Hear her humming songs sweetly under her breath.

Yeah, that’d never go away.  Not completely.  He could lay some of the weight down at her feet, though.  He could let some of that go.

Castiel squeezed Dean’s hand before moving it off him, walking slowly, unsteadily forward on his own.  Bracing himself against her headstone, Castiel knelt shakily in front of it.  He trailed his fingers over the indentions, her name cut out of gray, smooth stone.

There were no words, and so he didn’t speak.

He sat there for a while, listening to the wind howl between the trees at the edge of the cemetery.  He thought of the last time he’d come here, knees bent in the mud, his brothers spitting derision and wrenching him away.  The way he’d run to Dean.  The way he couldn’t believe how Dean had touched him so gently, held him against his chest.  That must have been the day he'd fallen in love with him.  There had never been anything else to feel for Dean, just that. Just love and everything that came with it.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a rustling noise beside him, a hand closed over his shoulder.  He looked to his right to see Sam kneeling down, hazel eyes staring back into his own.  Castiel smiled, reaching up to close his hand over Sam’s.

“Cas, is it okay?”

“Of course,” Castiel said, squeezing his hand once more before pulling away.  Looking forward to her headstone, he saw both of their reflections in the smooth surface.  He never thought he’d be here like this, kneeling beside the boy who’d taken her away from him, finding comfort in his presence.

“Hey… Anna,” Sam said quietly, his hand still gripping Cas’ shoulder.  “I, uh... I remember you.  I think about you a lot.  I wish... I wish I’d known you.”  Castiel watched Sam’s face in the reflection, his eyes closing slowly, shoulders rising and falling.  “I was very sick when you met me.  I was very lost, I was… I made a horrible mistake.  You lost your life for it.  I don’t know how to… forgive myself, I don’t know if I’m even allowed to.”  

Castiel closed his eyes, focused all his attention on the weight of Sam’s hand on his shoulder.  

“This isn’t about me,” Sam said quietly.  “You were kind, Anna, and beautiful, and you deserved so… so much better.  I remember when we met the night of the fire and you looked at me… you knew how damaged I was.  And you didn’t flinch or call me out on it.  You just looked at me with concern, like maybe you could understand.”  Castiel heard Sam take a deep breath, his own heart beating almost painfully fast. 

“I know you were good, Anna.  I know because I see it in Cas.  I know… we wouldn’t have him if it weren’t for you.”  Castiel squeezed his eyes tight, dug his fingernails into his thighs.  “So, really what I wanted to say was… thank you.”

There was a pause of silence.  A beat before he moved.

Castiel reached forward toward the headstone, braced himself against it.  His fingers trembled, gripping the edge like a lifeline.  He could feel it pressing against his lungs, that broken longing, that emptiness.  For the first time in a long, long time he just let it fall.  His tears burned into his cheeks, his shoulders shaking.  He cried quietly, openly, Sam rubbing his back.

He felt another body fall into place on his other side, a rough-skinned hand covering his own, clasped together over the freezing stone.  Dean wrapped an arm around his waist, overlapping his brother’s.  They held him up together, kept him from falling completely away.

Castiel took a labored breath, his sobs caught up in his throat before more tears fell.  It took him a while to stop crying enough to do what he wished he'd done months ago.  Just once, for all the times she'd done it for him.  He could finally sing her to sleep.   

“ _Blackbird singing in the dead of night_ ,” Cas sang quietly, his voice weak. “ _Take these broken wings and learn to fly, all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise._ ”

He waited for a moment, inhaling slowly.  His heart raced, throat tight.  Another tear fell, and the arms around him tightened.

“ _Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and learn to see, all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free…_ ”

He imagined her there, back to back with him, head resting against his shoulder.  He imagined her laugh, imagined her smiling, blue eyes wide and bright.  He hoped she was happy, he hoped if God or heaven existed, one day he’d see her again.  Until then, there was this.  The family he’d chosen, the family that had chosen him.

And he was happy.

“ _Blackbird fly, blackbird fly, into the light of the dark black night._ ”

\--

Dean flipped his phone open for what felt like the hundredth time that day.  He scrolled through his contacts until he found his father's name, thumb poised over the call button.  He'd tried earlier, but there had been no answer.  Dean was scared to try again.

"What are you doing?" Cas asked him, fingers threaded through Dean’s belt loops.  He was dressed for a long drive, a loose tee and hoodie, a worn pair of jeans that sat too low on his hips.  Dean turned to him, flipping the phone closed and putting it away in his pocket.

"Said he'd be here," Dean told him.  "My dad.  I called him the night you went to the hospital... said he'd come when he could.  It's only been a couple weeks, but I figured he'd have shown up by now."  Castiel stared at him with concern, tugging him a little closer.  "Said he wanted to meet you.  It's stupid... he's just... I wanted you to.  Like, even if you hate each other, I still... you should know where I come from.  He should know you."

"I'll meet him eventually," Cas said quietly, still watching him with cautious concern.

"Yeah, won't have much of a chance for a while, though," Dean said thickly, laughing a little, reaching out to brush Cas’ messy hair out of his eyes.  "God... I'm gunna miss you."

Cas didn't respond other than to take a shaky step forward, wrapping his arms around his waist.  Dean hugged him so tightly he though he might be hurting him, but Cas held him back just as hard.

"You can’t pull that shit where you don't call for days, alright?  Can't handle not knowin if you're okay," Dean told him, burying his face in Cas' hair.  "I'll come when I can.  Whenever I can."

Cas nodded against him, gripping him tighter.

They didn't say goodbye, because it wasn't goodbye.  They just stayed close to each other until Gabriel pulled up in their driveway, until Dean and Sam helped load Cas' duffel and garbage bag full of clothes into the trunk.  Dean watched Sam hug him, watched those lanky arms wrap around Cas' unsteady shoulders.  Dean pulled Cas close again when he moved to the passenger side door, his long fingers brushing the handle. 

"I love you," Dean told him, face pressed to the crook of his neck.

"I love you, too," Cas said back, quietly so only Dean would hear him.  They stood there in each other’s arms, silently, before Cas kissed his neck, nosed at his cheek.  "Gabriel says the internet is a good way to stay in touch.  He mentioned something about webcams."

Dean couldn't help but laugh, his body shaking as he held onto Cas even tighter.  He thought Cas chuckled as well, but it might have been something else.  He didn't question it.

They parted too soon for his liking.  Parting at all felt like too soon.

Sam stood next to Dean in their beat up old driveway, watching as Gabriel's car rounded the corner onto the main road, out of sight.  Dean stared at the empty street, his brother’s hand closing over his shoulder.  His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he reached back clumsily to grab it, fingers shaking when he flipped it open.  He had one new text from Gabriel's cell.  

_Check your pocket._

Dean reached a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, fingers closing around a chill, metal chain.  He pulled it out and looked down at Cas' pendant, thumb tracing over the smooth surface.  His phone buzzed again.

_I'm coming back for that.  Keep it safe._

\--

The first few weeks were the hardest for Castiel.

He didn’t have his own cell phone anymore.  Gabriel let him borrow his phone in the evenings, though, and mentioned buying him one of his own soon.  Castiel had never really been good with phones, never really knew what to say, but talking to Dean was… surprisingly easy.  It was nice.  It was actually good for them, without all that extra stuff in the way, without drama and without distraction.  It was something they hadn’t devoted enough time to before, just talking.  Now, separated by too many miles, it was all they really had.  Castiel found himself telling Dean everything.

Some nights they talked for hours, some nights they just said ' _goodnight_ ' and ' _I love you_ ', needing that brief connection, to hear each other’s voices.  Some nights they got on the phone while watching television, or reading, or listening to music, talking only when it struck them to do so.  It was comforting to have that, knowing that if he had something to say Dean would be there to hear it.

Dean didn’t complain the nights he was particularly silent.  Sometimes he filled it in by talking about Sam, or work, or his father once he’d finally shown up again.  Sometimes Dean was quiet, too.

It was hard, because Castiel missed him.  Because he couldn’t lean into him, couldn’t curl up against his side, couldn’t feel his lips or his hair brushing against his face.  It was hard because he couldn’t touch him.  They managed, though, and every time he heard Dean’s voice again, Castiel was only reminded how much it was worth it.  How they could do this.

The first few weeks were the hardest, but it got easier from there.

Castiel started at his alarm, his head aching dully, the smell of breakfast already cooking down the hall.  Candied bacon.  Again.  Gabriel’s apartment was compact, but nice, all the walls brightly colored and covered in designs.  He had art hung up everywhere, too.  It was almost overwhelming, but he was getting used to it.

The living situation was a little strange in comparison to what Castiel was familiar with.  Gabriel was… around a lot.  And they were still figuring each other out again.  It was good, though.  He cared, and that was something Castiel needed.

He pushed himself out of bed and looked around.  It was strangely bare compared to his old room.  

Castiel dressed slowly, his motor functions still weak and legs still relatively uncompliant to his needs.  He knew it would get better, that he wasn’t as bad off as a lot of others in his same position.  He could get around with minimal help, but still felt a little dizzy at times, going slow and finding handholds wherever he could manage.  

The physical therapist he’d seen a few days after moving in with Gabriel said it was mostly an issue of coordination and that they would focus on that, working with any other issues as they came along.  With a lot of practice and exercise, both in session and out, the therapist enthusiastically expected a full recovery.

He made his way down the hall to the kitchen, sitting himself at the table and watching Gabriel pick up pieces of sugared bacon with a pair of tongs and place them on a plate.

“I don’t understand how you eat this every morning,” Castiel said, resting his head in his palm, trying to ignore the persistent ache.  It was getting less frequent, but mornings were the worst, and movement didn’t make it better.

“You sound a hell of a lot like someone who gets to eat unbuttered toast for breakfast,” Gabriel sneered, crunching a piece inelegantly between his teeth.  “I’d make you go hungry, but you’re too skinny as it is.”

“Thanks,” Castiel muttered, cringing when Gabriel dropped a plate of toast in front of him.  It was, in fact, buttered, and accompanied by a scoop of scrambled eggs.  Castiel rolled his eyes and picked up his fork, taking a bite.  “Thank you,” he said, more sincerely.  

“Whatever,” Gabriel said, also looking a bit exhausted, sitting down beside him with his plate full of the sweet smelling meat and a jar of maple syrup.  “You nervous?”

Castiel made a noncommittal noise, swallowing a half chewed bite of egg, wincing as it made its way uncomfortably down his throat.  He stabbed at his food for a few more seconds before frowning.  “This isn’t exactly something I’m thrilled about,” Castiel said.  “It doesn’t matter.  If this is how I get better… if it even makes a little difference, I should try.”

“It won’t go like last time,” Gabriel said.  “You’re in control.”

Castiel took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair.  Then he nodded.  Gabriel was right.  It’d be okay.  He could do this.  He’d just spent so much time hiding and being ashamed, terrified of his past, scared of losing himself or not being in control.  Facing it now, in this way, felt monumental.  

They finished their breakfast in relative silence before heading out to the car.  Gabriel liked pop music, heavy beats and predictable choruses, and Castiel hated to admit it… but some of it wasn’t horrible.  Dean would make so much fun of him if he ever found out.  

By the time they pulled up in the small, labyrinthine lot, a cluster of offices and trailers surrounded by trees and well-tended shrubbery, Castiel felt sick.  It took everything he had to push himself out of the seat, letting Gabriel help him up the stairs to a small building nestled right in the center.  They passed by a well-made sign with a list of MDs, their respective fields, and their locations throughout the complex.

Castiel signed himself in, taking a clipboard and sitting himself on a stiff chair directly facing the door.  Gabriel sat down beside him, playing some game on his phone, tapping noisily away at the screen.

The waiting room was tiny, every spare inch of it filled in with potted plants, fragrant and almost intrusive in the tight space, but pretty.  The only other person there was one slightly bored looking receptionist behind a glass window, fidgeting with her nails.  Castiel stared down at the clipboard.  The current page was a checklist of symptoms, previous medical issues.  Had he been hospitalized recently?  He checked yes.

“You want me in there?” Gabriel asked, looking over his shoulder as he continued to fill out the paperwork.  

“That sounds counterproductive,” Castiel said dryly.

"Hey, I can behave," Gabriel huffed, sitting back in his seat.  "See, this is why I'm never nice, no one appreciates it."

"I'm appreciative," Castiel said.  "And skeptical."  Castiel looked over at his brother who was rolling his eyes dramatically.  "I'll be fine.  I need to do this on my own."

Gabriel nodded, mussing up his hair before turning back to his phone.

The receptionist was pretty, he realized.  She wore her pale blonde hair in a bun, her body curvy, thicker than average.  She wore it very gracefully, he thought.  She was young as well, maybe somewhere in her early twenties.  She looked up at him with soft brown eyes when he pushed the clipboard back through the small opening beneath the window, her cheeks a little pink.  He gave her a smile, and she grinned back, mouthing ‘ _thank you_ ’ and then ‘ _good luck_ ’.   The exchange made him feel a little calmer, his heart beating less frantically when he sat back down.

They waited for about ten minutes before the door to the back offices opened.  A slender, middle-aged, dark skinned man walked out.  He had kind eyes and a gentle smile, reaching out with one hand to a nearby potted bonsai tree, thumb tracing one twisted, elegant stem. He looked over at them before glancing back down at his clipboard, pursing his lips.

“Castiel?” he asked, looking between him and Gabriel.  Castiel swallowed and nodded, pushing himself shakily to his feet, one hand on his brother’s shoulder for support.  “I’m Doctor Evans, but you can call me Joshua.  Looks like this is your first time seeing a therapist in quite some time, Castiel.  I just want you to know that there’s no reason to be worried.  We can go at whatever pace you’re comfortable with.  Are you ready to come back?”

Castiel looked over at his brother, Gabriel tapping away at his cell before he held it up for Castiel’s inspection.  There was a text on the screen, just under Dean’s name.

_you can do it!  i love you_

Castiel smiled, touching the screen for a moment before he looked back at Joshua.  Then, he nodded slowly.

“Alright,” Joshua smiled, opening the door wider.  “Follow me.”

\--

Sam sat back against the worn, comfortable couch in Missouri’s office.  He thumbed the tassels of a throw pillow, the cloth decorated with gold-threaded designs.  The lights were dim, Missouri hunched over in her seat, scrawling something out on a notepad.  Sam waited, took a deep breath that sounded too loud in the silence.

“We talked about a lot of things these past few months; your plans for college, your feelings about your father still working away from home…”

“He comes by more often, recently,” Sam amended, frowning.  “Not enough, but more.”  Missouri nodded knowingly, folding her hands together over her lap and the notebook.

“Your brother stopped drinkin’ after your incident last semester, too. How’s he doin’ with that?”

“Still good.  Might have had a few beers since then, but he’s been… really good,” Sam said, running a hand through his shaggy hair.  It was getting long enough that he could part it down the middle.  Jess wasn’t sure she liked it and kept messing with it every time they were together.  “Spends a lot of time after school working at the auto shop or on the phone with Cas.  Calls him every night.  I think it helps him.”

Sam smiled a little.  They’d all gotten on webcam last Friday to watch _Star Wars: Episode IV_ together.  Cas asked so many questions Sam thought Dean’s head was going to explode.  By the end of it Cas had been completely engrossed and Dean had stopped paying attention to the movie altogether, instead just staring at Cas’ face in the screen.  Later, Dean had stolen the laptop and Sam didn't even want to _think_ about what that meant.

Sam had gone into his room the next morning to find it set up on Dean' bedside table, Dean asleep, hand draped over the keyboard.  The camera still running.

“And you?”

“Still have nightmares,” Sam said quietly.  He leaned over, bracing his elbows against his knees.  “Still have cravings, but they’re less frequent, I guess.  It’s hard sometimes… I dunno, I guess it took me a while to realize that it wasn’t just gunna go away, that it might stick with me a really long time.  I hate it, but… you know, it’s getting better.  Slowly.”

“Addiction is one of those things that never really leaves you.  Just like grief… never really goes away, but you can deal with it.  Talk to other people who know what you been through.  Realize you’re not alone,” Missouri said, setting down her notepad on the desk next to her.  “I never told you this, but my father was a _mean_ alcoholic.  Never hit nobody, but he was angry, pushed everyone who loved him as far away as he could because something was eatin’ him up inside.  And it wasn’t the drink, you know, that was just the way his addiction manifested.  He’d always been lookin’ for a way to escape his life, his own head.”  

Sam looked up at her, watched her mouth turn into a frown.

“He’s one of the lucky ones, had a wife he didn’t really deserve that never lost faith in him, and now he’s ten years sober.  Not sure you’re lucky or unlucky to have this experience so young, to have gotten out so quickly.  You got your whole life ahead of you, Sam.  Take advantage of that.  Never forget you got people who love you, people who’d be lost without you.”

 “Figured that out a while ago,” Sam smiled, thinking of Jess and Cas.  Thinking of Dean.

“I knew that.  You’re smart as a whip and you’ll do well if you keep straight,” she smiled, glancing up at the clock tacked above the door frame.  “Bell’s about to ring, and that’ll be the last I see of you for the summer.  You give any thought to what I said last time?”

“Support groups?” Sam asked, his fingers fidgeting slightly.

“They got one for kids under eighteen that meet up in the Rec Center on Wednesdays at noon, just a few miles from here.  I wrote down the address for you.  Shouldn’t be hard to make it.  I think it’s time you started talking to people who can relate to you, who can really help you.”

“I like talking to you,” Sam mumbled.

“You can call me whenever you need, honey, the line’s always open.  You know that.  I still think this is the best thing for you.”

Sam nodded and gave Missouri a smile, pushing himself off the couch and walking toward her.  He watched her tear off the edge of the paper she’d been writing on, holding it out.  He took it, glancing down to see an address written out beneath a few telephone numbers.  Sam felt a little nervous, but determined.  It was time to really do this.

“I got faith in you, boy.  You take care of yourself over the summer, alright?  Have fun, too.  Only so many summers left before you’re grown, and it’s a little scary how different it gets after that,” she said, smiling.  “It’s why I took a job in the school system.  I like my summers.”

Sam laughed, leaning forward to give her a tight hug around her shoulders.  She patted his back.

“Proud of you,” she said quietly, a little choked.

“Thanks for everything,” Sam said back, pulling away and looking toward the door.  It was the last time he’d see it for a long while.

\--

Dean woke up to a faint noise, his phone lighting up and buzzing noisily on his bedside table.  He fumbled for it sleepily, nearly dropping it as he flipped it open, pressing it against his ear.  He tried to say something like ‘ _hello_ ’ or ‘ _who the hell is this I’m trying to get some fucking sleep_ ’, but it just came out as a few unintelligible grunts.

“ _Dean?_ ” he asked quietly.

That voice was like an adrenaline shot.  He pried his eyes open, heart racing.

“Fuck, Cas?” Dean ask, pushing himself into a sitting position so he could actually make an attempt at consciousness. The room was pitch dark, the house quiet.  It had to be late, Sam hadn’t gone to bed before midnight all damn week, studying incessantly for finals, and then celebrating when they’d been done and fucking over with.

“ _Are you alright_?” Cas asked.  Dean blinked, reaching up to rub at his eyes.

“What?” Dean asked, dragging his fingers down his cheeks.  “What are you talking about?  M’fine, why?  What’s going on?”

“ _You didn’t call._ ”

“Oh.”  Shit.  Dean leaned back against the headboard, pulling his knees up to his chest.  “Sorry, baby, work at the shop went long and I crashed as soon as I got home.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Cas said.  There was a pause, and Dean closed his eyes, listening to him breathe.

“You pissed at me?” Dean asked.  God, he hated this sometimes, especially when Cas sounded this beaten down.  It wasn’t as common as it used to be.  Therapy was going really well for him, both the physical and the mental, and they had him on a few low grade anxiety meds that curbed the worst of it.  He still had sleepless nights.

“ _No, I just… I worked myself up.  I apologize_ ,” Cas said, sighing.  Dean heard a rustling that sounded a bit like sheets.  He imagined Cas lying in bed, stretched out, limbs bare.  Usually that warmed him, but tonight he just wished he could be there to cover Cas’ body with his own.  “ _Bad night.  It’s not your fault._ ”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Dean muttered, reaching down to grab his sheets and throw them over his legs.  It wasn’t cold, not even remotely, but it helped.  “Wish I could be with you.  Just a few more weeks before I can visit.  Sam talked me into doing the whole graduation ceremony bullshit.  I don’t know why he cares so much, it’s not like Dad’ll show up or anything.”

“ _He’s proud of you_ ,” Cas said, his voice a little calmer now.  “ _I’m proud of you._ ”

“Yeah, graduating as a straight-C student.  Lot to be proud of there,” Dean muttered, rolling his eyes.  He smiled when he heard Cas sigh disappointedly, imagining those squinty blue eyes narrowing at him in frustration.

“ _There is_ ,” Cas said.  “ _Don’t sell yourself short_.”  Dean shrugged pointlessly and let him have it.  It made him happy that Cas was proud of him, anyway.  Hell, he was kinda proud of himself.  “ _I’m going to get Sam to send me pictures of you in your gown._ ”

“Do not even say the word ‘gown’ to me,” Dean retorted.

“ _If I could be there I’d press you against the wall and fuck you under your gown, Dean Winchester_ ,” Cas growled.

Dean didn’t even have a response to that.  He laughed, laying back down, pulling his pillow to his chest.  The phone was pressed between his ear and the pillow, the sounds amplified.  It was so stupid, but it helped.  Made Cas feel closer.

“I miss you,” Dean said, his cheeks heated, a hollow weight in his chest.  He hadn’t seen Cas since spring break.  Dean hadn’t stopped touching him the whole time, their fingers always interlaced, shoulders brushing.  Sucking on his bottom lip as he boxed him in against the wall of his bedroom, pressed together greedily like there wasn’t enough time to breathe much less take their clothes off.

Cas took a deep, shaky breath.  It was too pointed, too loud over the line, falling over him heavily.

“ _I miss you, too._ ”

\--

Sam walked up to Jess, damp and shivering a little, hair stuck to his skin.  She was dressed in a yellow swimsuit, khaki shorts hanging off her hips, damp at the cuffs.  Her bare toes curled against the concrete.  Sam moved behind her, hands on her hips, kissing her cheek.  She smiled and leaned into him.

“You’re getting red,” she said, knocking her head back against his chin.  Sam stared out at the park beyond the public pool, distant now, the sky overcast and dim, the sun low and barely peeking through the clouds.  It’d been sunny not even an hour earlier.  “I told you to wear sunscreen.”

“Whatever, I’ll be fine.  Think I’ve never dealt with a little sunburn before?” Sam smiled, kissing her again before taking her hand.  He walked them away from the pool and back in the direction of her home.  They’d been out all day and Sam was exhausted.  Ready to curl up on the couch and watch movies for the rest of the night before Dean came to pick him up.

Jess nuzzled his shoulder, and he tried not to cringe, his skin already oversensitive and heated.  Tomorrow was gunna be hell, but he wasn’t going to admit defeat.  Not yet, not till he absolutely had to.

“You know, your brother could have come,” Jess said eventually.  “I could have invited Charlie, too.  I think she likes him better than me, now.”  Jess pouted, and Sam smiled.  “It would have been fun.”

“Dean wanted to stay home today and watch movies with Cas online," Sam told her.  "Think he’s missing him a lot lately… been really, really antsy.  Keeps rearranging the kitchen.  I have no idea where anything is anymore."  Jess laughed, and Sam grinned.

“When is Cas coming back?  Is he coming back?” She asked after a pause.  Sam felt his grin fall, sighing a little.

“I dunno.  It’s something they kind of avoid talking about… at least around me.  I think he knows he’s always had a home with us.” Sam said, squeezing her hand a little harder.  They turned a corner onto her street, the sky already significantly darker than it’d been when they’d left.  “Dean even asked dad if it’d be okay if eventually Cas moved in.  He hardly comes home, anyway.  It’s more Dean’s house than his now.  Dad’s done a lot of shit wrong but… yeah he said it was fine.  Said it was Dean’s decision.”

Jess nodded, jumping a little at the roll of distant thunder.

“Got out of there just in time,” she said, a little dazed.  She pulled him a little more quickly toward her house, the windows lit up, her mom’s car in the driveway.  They made it to the porch before another roll of thunder, Jess’ whole body going tense.

“You know, it’s not gunna hurt you,” Sam smiled, pushing her damp hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear.  She shivered and frowned at him, crossing her arms protectively in front of her chest.

“Shut up, you ass, I don’t like it.”

“You baby,” he grinned.  The street lit up before another crash of thunder, the air around them thick.  Jess yelped and plowed into his chest, and he hugged her, closing her in against her front door and twisting the knob.  It was locked, so he knocked, kissing her forehead while they waited.

He felt her shivering against him, arms still tight across her chest.  His arms were wrapped around her protectively, muffling the noise as well as he could, her head pinned between his chest and hand.

“Hey, it’s fine,” he soothed.  “I got you.”

She nuzzled his chest sweetly, relaxing a little, her arms winding around his waist.  It started to drizzle, falling soft and steady for only a moment before a full downpour began, a noisy torrent encasing them on the porch.  

He looked down at her, pressing another kiss against her damp hair.  The sweet, flowery scent of her shampoo was still there, even through the thick stench of chlorine.  It made his chest warm.  He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of it, having her close, breathing her in.

Jess nudged his chin with her nose, and he leaned in to press their foreheads together, another flash of lightening and crack of thunder.  She hardly shook, just stared him straight in the eyes, petting his back under her fingers.

“I think I love you,” she said quietly.  Sam’s breath caught in his throat before he kissed her, hand cupping the back of her neck, holding her tightly against him.  They parted for a breath, and he smiled into it, staring down into her beautiful brown eyes.

“You’re amazing,” Sam said.  “How could I not love you?”

She smiled wide and kissed him again.  

They stayed pressed together on the porch until Jess’ mother came to the door, ushering them inside as their fingers laced together.  Sam shut the door after them, locking out the storm.

\--

Dean paced up and down the hall of the empty house, his cell phone clutched in his fist.  He tried to take a deep breath, pressing himself back against a wall, running a hand through his hair.  

Two days.  He hadn't heard from Cas in two days.

Gabe wasn’t answering his messages, either, and that was pissing him off even more.  If Cas was hurt, or pissed at him, or whatever the hell was going on, his brother could at least drop him a goddamn line.  You know, so he wouldn’t completely fucking lose it.

He hated the distance.

Cas probably _was_ pissed at him, honestly.  They'd avoided talking about the living situation for a while but a couple nights ago he'd been stupid and brought it up.  He just missed him so fucking much.  Cas hadn't said much, either.  Maybe he'd changed his mind.  Maybe he really liked living with Gabe.  Maybe he...

No, fuck that.  Cas loved him.  Cas was in this with him.  A hundred percent.  Dean knew that.

He just had a good thing going, and maybe it wasn't worth it to uproot again.  Dean could understand that.  He'd support whatever Cas wanted.  Trips would be easier now that Dean was out of school.  Maybe Cas was worried Dean would be mad about that, about waiting longer.  Dean wouldn't be mad.  He just wanted Cas healthy... happy.  He just wanted to know he was okay.

Dean tried to ignore it, tried to tell himself to wait it out.  He walked to the living room and sat himself in front of the television.  He rubbed at his eyes, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose.  Sam was spending the last week of summer vacation on a trip with Jess and her mother to some lake house they’d rented out, and so Dean was left to tear up the house on his own.

Dean sighed, his shoulders slumping.

“Goddamn it, Cas,” he muttered to himself.  He clutched his cell in his fist and brought it up to his forehead, closing his eyes.  “Just text me or something.  Anything.”  

He sat there like that for what felt like way too long, not making any move to turn on the television or try and call again, eventually feeling the weight of his exhaustion settle over his shoulders.  Dean curled up on the couch, phone pressed between his cheek and the cushion.  Cas’ pendant sat against his chest, just under the collar of his shirt, and Dean touched it before closing his eyes. 

 He fell very slowly into dreamless sleep, letting the dark wrap around him like a blanket.

Dean woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest, a loud buzzing noise and a vibration against his cheek.  Pushing himself up, Dean fumbled for his phone, flipping it open and pressing it against his ear.

“Cas?” he asked, instinctually.

“ _Dean_.”

That was his voice.  That was Cas’ voice.

"Are you hurt?"

" _No.  Dean, I-_ "

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” Dean snapped, standing up from the couch, readying himself for a physical fight he wasn’t going to actually have.  “You said you wouldn’t pull this shit anymore.  What the fuck, Cas?  You couldn’t text or pop online for five seconds to let your fucking boyfriend know that you weren't, ya know, _dead_?”

“ _Dean…_ ” Cas repeated, his voice almost amused.  Dean would have punched him if he were standing in front of him.

“Is this funny?  Me being scared out of my mind, you think that’s a joke?”

“ _Dean, come to the door._ ”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asked, his voice hollow.  He realized he was being purposefully fucking dense, watching the dark hall that led to his front door in quiet trepidation.

“ _Dean, please come to the door_ ,” Cas said, more quietly.  He sounded nervous now, and Dean could feel it, too.  Welling up in his chest, about to spill out of every pore.  He walked through his house to the front door, the phone still pressed to his ear.  He reached out, slightly frozen and still foggy from sleep, even with all that adrenaline bleeding through him.  “ _Please_ ,” Cas repeated.  

Dean opened the door.

Cas was there, standing on his doorstep with his cell clutched in his fist.  For a moment, Dean couldn’t breathe, nearly dropping his phone.  Cas had a heavy duffel in one hand.  He looked solid, steady on his feet, even more so than he had a few weeks ago, the last time Dean had been able to make the drive to see him.  His hair was a little shorter, his stubble grown out.

Dean didn’t know if he wanted to kiss him, or hit him, or both, but he couldn’t stop staring.  Cas really didn’t give him a chance to do much of anything else.

Dropping his bag on the ground, Cas moved forward to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist, his face pressed against his neck.  It was a bruising force, crushing the air out of his lungs, along with all his anger and all his fear.  Dean circled his arms around Cas’ shoulder’s, his phone slipping between his fingers to the ground, holding Cas so tightly he thought he might never be able to let him go again.

“Why the hell didn’t you call?” Dean asked quietly, his voice choked.  “What are you doing here?”

Cas pulled back, his eyes red and watery, mouth twitching in a helpless sort of smile.  He reached up to the collar of Dean’s shirt and pulled it down, touching the face of his pendant with a careful finger.  Dean could feel his heart throbbing in his throat, the effort to stay still nearly killing him.

“I, um,” Cas said, his voice thick.  “I had a lot to do.  I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“You wanted to give me a heart attack,” Dean corrected weakly.  

Cas watched him, frowning a little, blinking rapidly.  Dean moved forward, pressing their foreheads together and closing his eyes.  He thought of every morning he'd woken to Cas gone, Cas leaving, Cas forced away by life and circumstance, because it was what he needed.  Because as much as Dean wanted Cas near him there were some things more important than being able to touch him, hold him, wake up tangled in his arms.  

Then Cas kissed him, and he knew that Cas had finally come home.

Dean whimpered softly at the contact, sucking in a deep breath as he nipped at Cas’ lower lip, needing him more and more the closer they got.  His hands reached up to cup Cas’ jaw, thumbs brushing over his warm skin, scruff raking against his palms.  His heart wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t slow down, and Dean was dizzy with it, warm with it.

“Stay,” he heard himself say.   “Don’t go this time.  Just stay with me.”

Easily, like he had been waiting forever to hear those words, Cas did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. I wanted to write you all a love letter, signed and sealed, but I'll make this brief. Thank you. Thank you for those who have stuck with me from the beginning, thank you to those who came in later on, thank you to everyone who stayed till the very end. You can not understand what your support means to me. I only hope that you enjoyed the story half as much as I've enjoyed sharing it with you. It's been a huge part of my life for nine months now, and so are all of you. Your comments and encouragement have kept me going. Thank you, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Know that people love you, that you're not alone. There's always hope.
> 
> Ashton


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